


New Promise In This Night

by sullymygoodname



Series: All Things New Again [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:56:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sullymygoodname/pseuds/sullymygoodname
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a reason they tell the story of their very first meeting, rather than how they truly met. This is the story of how they saved each other. (The promised prequel to New Heaven Over a Brand New Sky, AKA the one where Castiel is an ex-Army surgeon and Dean is training to be a paramedic. I recommend reading that one first.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story you are about to read is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the creator's imagination or are used fictitiously. This story does not reflect the views or opinions of any actual person portrayed herein.  
> ...Anyway, IT'S JUST ~~CLAY~~ ...er, FICTION!

* * *

Descending into the pit gives him a deep sense of foreboding, a yawning abyss opening up right in the center of him, because this night, Castiel can tell, is going to be a long one. Most days he enjoys working the ER. It's fast-paced and keeps his mind occupied; there's seldom a chance to get lost in thought. However, tonight he feels a headache coming on and this is the first quiet moment he's had in the last nine hours. The violent summer storm outside has kept him rushed off his feet, running from one trauma room to the next. A bus accident came in early this evening; eleven injuries, four needing surgery, but no fatalities. There are downed power lines all over the county, and volunteer emergency workers have been called in to help cover shifts.

Sometimes Castiel does not understand why people can't just _stay home_ on nights like this. He anticipates much more activity later, people traveling to and from their nights out. If he could get a bit of a breather now, while it's relatively calm, and take care of this headache, he should be fine. Of course that's when the exterior doors just beyond reception burst open, letting in howling wind and rain and a man in dark clothing.

"We need some help over here!" the man shouts, staggering and sliding on the wet tile under the weight of a limp bundle in his arms. A dark head flops against the man's shoulder, long hair dripping down his side. "Hey, we need a fucking doctor right now!"

Nancy, the receptionist, is the first to reach them, followed by two nurses and an orderly rushing over with a gurney. In the flurry of activity, Castiel almost misses the small boy standing about waist-height just behind the man, until he speaks. "Is my mom okay? She won't wake up."

"Can you tell me what happened, sir?" Castiel asks as he helps to ease the woman onto the gurney and checks her vitals.

"The car was hit," the man says. He hovers over her, as though he's unsure about letting her go. "I think she banged her head."

"Yes." Castiel nods, noting the contusions along her temple. "How long has she been unconscious? Were you able to revive her at all?"

The man shakes his head. "No, I couldn't. She's been out, uh… um, maybe—"

"Over an hour," the boy says, squeezing his way in front of the man to reach for his mother's hand. His shoes scuff the floor as he scurries alongside the gurney, trying to keep up. "She was awake at first, but then she stopped talking and I thought—but she was still breathing and I didn't know what to do." The boy sounds breathless, but remarkably calm.

"Did you call for an ambulance?" Castiel asks the man. It's possible that there wasn't anyone available to take the call on a night like this. Castiel tries to keep eye contact with him, because he seems to be the one panicking.

"I tried, but I couldn't get a signal." The man places his hovering hand on the boy's shoulder. "It was out on the highway, about two miles past the Texaco." He pulls the boy up short as they approach the interior doors.

"Trauma room one," Castiel instructs, letting the gurney be escorted through, before turning back to the man and his son. "You'll have to remain here. Someone will be out as soon as possible to update you on your w—"

"Lisa," the boy says, wriggling out of his father's grip. "My mom's name is Lisa. She's gonna be okay, right?"

Bending his head forward, Castiel attempts to be soothing. "My name is Dr. Miles, and I will do everything in my power." The boy does not look convinced, chin raised and pushed out. Like that, Castiel imagines how this boy will one day grow up to look like the man standing behind him, tall and strong. It's then that he notices the man's clothes aren't just dark, but soaking wet, the sleeve of his shirt is torn and bloody.

Without thinking, Castiel reaches out and touches the man's bicep just above the elbow, turning him so that he can better see. "You're injured."

"What?" The man looks down at Castiel's hand, the bleeding cut on his arm, and he seems a bit dazed. _Shock, of course,_ but his skin feels warm beneath Castiel's fingers.

Pulling his hand back suddenly, Castiel straightens up and tries to regain his composure. Grabbing a passing intern, he says, "They were in a car accident; they need to be looked over. Please allow Dr. Sorenson to examine you. Nancy," he gestures to the receptionist, and the man glances at her over his shoulder, "will need to get your information when you are finished."

Excusing himself, Castiel pushes through the doors, and hears Sorenson's soft tone, then the man's gruff voice: "C'mon, kid, she'll be alright." As he hurries down the corridor, Castiel prays that will be true.

* * *

He's not sure how long they sit there, but it's long enough for Dean's ass to fall asleep in the uncomfortable waiting room chair. Long enough for the kid, who'd been sitting so still and patient, to start fidgeting in his seat.

"Hey, kid, you need to go to the bathroom or something?" Dean asks.

The kid just glares at him. "Ben. My name is Ben," he says like he's told Dean this a million times (which he probably has). "And it's been forever. What's taking so long?"

The wave crashes over Dean so unexpectedly that he almost loses his breath. Was it not even two years ago that he was sitting just like this? Waiting for someone to come and tell him whether or not his father would be walking back out of that room? Sam was older than Ben, but he'd asked the exact same question. Dean couldn't answer it then, either.

He tries to murmur reassuringly, "I'm sure it won't be much longer," but he can tell he's not placating the kid any.

Ben sighs loudly through his nose, folds his arms over his chest and flops back in his seat. It's so reminiscent of Sammy two seconds away from throwing a tantrum that Dean automatically tenses up, bracing himself for imminent meltdown.

"You want something out of the vending machine? I think I got some change here…" Dean reaches for his pocket, grimacing when the fresh stitches on his upper arm pull tight. He must've sliced himself up when he'd busted into that wreck of a car to pull the woman out. He hadn't even felt the cut on his arm or noticed the blood soaking into his shirt until that doctor pointed it out. The warmth of his hand on Dean's arm had sent him shivering, and he's been feeling chills ever since. His clothes are still damp and clinging to his skin. He tried to protest the stitches — hell, he's had worse before — but they were all pretty insistent. At least the kid's okay; they'd checked him over thoroughly.

Dean had to explain several times that he hadn't been in the car that was hit, he'd just found them like that, and that this wasn't his son. It took a good long while to convince the receptionist who was trying to get his information. He's just glad he hasn't had to talk to any cops yet. He wasn't drunk or anything, but he'd rather they not get close enough to have a whiff of his breath either way. If half of their car's front end hadn't been strewn all over the road, Dean's fairly certain he'd have plowed right into them. Probably would've killed them all.

His hands are shaking, but he finally wrangles some change out of his pocket and mentally counts it up. "I've got ninety cents here. That should get you a candy bar or something."

Ben ignores the change in Dean's outstretched palm and slumps down in his chair, legs swinging idly just shy of the floor. "I don't think anyone's called my dad yet."

Damn. Dean hadn't even thought about that. He'd just kind of figured… well, whatever. This, at least, is something he can take care of. He stands and pulls his phone out of his pocket. "Well, come on then, let's do that."

* * *

It's completely unprofessional. Castiel _knows_ this. He's been reduced to _hiding_ in his own hospital. But… desperate times.

 _'Funny,'_ says the voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like his sister, _'that was the excuse that got you into this mess.'_

Castiel ignores it and peeks through the window into the reception area again. Dr. Benoit is gesturing expansively, smiling just a little too much even if he is delivering good news. The man is standing, nodding along, but the boy is the one asking questions. Castiel can't hear them, though.

He's distracted by the woman just beyond. She flips her dark hair over her shoulder again, flashing that shark's grin at poor Nancy. Her long fingernails are a dark shade of red, matching her lipstick, and she's wearing black stilettos this time to go with her black business suit. The skirt is shorter than is strictly appropriate and he's certain she isn't wearing stockings at all…

The door bangs open beside him, startling Castiel out of his daze. Dr. Benoit pins him with a look and says, "The next time you page me 9-1-1, it'd better be for a plastics consult. A damned good one. I mean it, Cassie."

"I apologize if I've inconvenienced you."

"Yes, you look sorry, but it's nothing to do with me." He directs his gaze through the window. "Can you not just tell her that you aren't interested?"

"I've tried." Castiel scowls. "It does not seem to work."

"You're pathetic, old man."

"Yes. Thank you, Balthazar, I am aware." Castiel turns his glare on his friend, but falters, remembering he'd just done a favor. "Thank you," he says again, sincerely.

Balthazar waves his hand dismissively. "You've still never told me the story there."

"And I'm not going to." Castiel will take that to his grave, the colossal mistake he'd made last year that plagues him still. It seems he's doomed to be forever haunted by his missteps and bad choices. He peers back through the window; Meg is still there, but the man and his son are gone now. "Where did you—"

"Directed them to the second floor, of course. They'll meet your patient in recovery. Or… whatever. Not my problem anymore. Shame, that one." Balthazar starts down the corridor toward the elevators, and, with one last glance through the door, Castiel follows.

"How do you mean?" Castiel asks. "It was a minor abdominal bleed; she'll make a quick recovery."

Balthazar gives him a look that Castiel can't quite decipher. "I meant _you_. Surely you didn't have your eyes closed when you were talking to him."

"I don't—"

"Speaking of eyes, his were a gorgeous green." They reach the elevator, but Balthazar doesn't press the button, giving Castiel a pointed look this time. He sighs dramatically. "Alas, you're far too principled to go after a man who's already taken, aren't you?"

Feeling his face start to flame, Castiel averts his gaze and presses the button himself. "I've told you, I'm not… here for… that."

Balthazar rolls his eyes. "You'll have it off with the devious drug rep who lingers about the place like a bad smell—"

"I didn't have—"

"But try and get you to even _look at_ someone you might actually be interested in…"

"Who, as you've already stated, is taken," Castiel points out in a very reasonable and not at all exasperated tone. And he hadn't had anything off with her; it was one… a few kisses in an on-call room. _Last year._

"Like I said. A shame." Balthazar leers. "Those hands of his. Huge. Bet they're rough, too, and he could just—"

"Please. Stop."

The elevator dings and they step aside as the doors open to allow everyone to exit. They ride up in silence, the sole occupants, for a few seconds before Balthazar sighs again.

"They're not all going to be like that little Irish bastard, Cassie," he says quietly.

Castiel fixes his eyes above the door, watching the numbers rise. "I believe his ancestry was Scottish."

Balthazar huffs next to him, but, thankfully, refrains from saying anything more. He knows by now that Castiel never wishes to speak of… that. His ultimate mistake. The one that derailed his entire life.

When they reach their floor Castiel goes to collect his missing interns, rounding them all up and barking orders — it's almost like being back in the ranks, creating order out of chaos. He sends them off to do their jobs, watches them scamper like frightened sheep, and smiles.

"Oh," he adds before they've all vanished again, "someone please go downstairs and remind Ms. Masters that she is not supposed to be on the premises." The hospital has already rejected dealings with Niveus Pharmaceuticals. If she persists, surely the chief will phone her supervisor. With that, Castiel about turns and marches back down the corridor.

He sees the man again only briefly, dozing off in a chair outside his wife's room. It occurs to Castiel that he never even learned the man's name. There are four more road accidents that night all brought to his ER. A teenage girl dies on his operating table, and he doesn't think of the man or his family again.

* * *

The horizon is just starting to brighten, night slowly bleeding away to day, when Dean walks out into the hospital parking lot. He'd sat with the kid 'til his mom woke up, and even, against his better judgment, stuck around for the cops to explain how he'd found them in the middle of the deserted highway. It took Ben to convince them that Dean had not been the one to hit them; he'd even given a decent description of the car that did. Lisa, Ben's mother, thanked Dean over and over until he couldn't take it anymore. He let her know that her husband was on his way from Indiana to come and take care of things, and Dean figured that was his cue to exit stage left.

Fishing his keys out of his pocket, he steps off the curb and right into a puddle, soaking his boot and his jeans up to the knee.

"Son of a bitch," he mutters under his breath. His clothes had pretty much just finished drying, too. Shaking his foot off, Dean makes his way across from the ambulance bay, then stops and stares at the spot where his baby should be…

Of fucking course he'd parked in a tow zone.

* * *

Turns out the police station and the impound lot are just around the corner, because obviously all the municipal buildings in this whole damn town are on the same block. Unfortunately, for whatever stupid reason, he can't get his car back because it's Sunday. He doesn't even want to think about however much that's going to cost him.

The sun is now high in the sky and warming the air, steam rising from the puddles on the ground. Dean walks around, sweating through his shirt, until he finds an inn with abso-fucking-lutely ridiculous prices. 'Small town charm' can't possibly be worth that much, but there's nothing else and Dean is dead tired. He ponders his dwindling supply of cash as he hands over his one and only credit card.

As soon as he gets into his room, he collapses onto the very soft bed and passes out, remembering only at the last second to kick off his shoes. His mind is weighed down with worries of what the hell he's even doing with his life. He dreams of going to California to find Sam, but on the way there his car is swept off the road and sucked right up into the sky.

* * *

On his days off, Castiel never knows what to do with himself. He would prefer to keep busy, but his small apartment only requires minimal upkeep, and he's never been one for creative projects. Most of the time, he sleeps. It disrupts his body clock, making it difficult to get back on a regular schedule, but he finds himself lying in bed through the morning and sometimes into the afternoon with no desire to get up or even move.

Once upon a time, he'd rise with the sun. In fact, Castiel was up and about at dawn (if not earlier) for most of his life. He'd start his day off with fifty push-ups followed by a long run and a hearty breakfast. The rest of his day would be just as full. He did try to keep to that routine when he'd first moved here, and it worked for a while. There was much to be done then. He used to make long lists of things he needed to accomplish by week's end, and check them off one by one as he went.

He's unsure exactly when he'd dropped that altogether. One day he'd woken up and didn't make a list. He still got things done. Then he'd allowed himself to sleep in, staying beneath the warm freshly laundered sheets; there weren't any pressing matters that needed his attention. He'd rolled out of bed, well into the afternoon, and decided to forego his run; the sun was already high in the sky and there were too many people about, unlike the cool and quiet mornings he was used to.

Now he rarely leaves the apartment at all, unless he must — work, groceries, once or twice a month to the bank or the post office. Gabriel will occasionally drag him to dinner, although Castiel seems to take most of his meals in the hospital's cafeteria. Balthazar pokes and prods, trying to cajole him into _going out_ , but Castiel has no desire to _go out_ , in any sense of the words. He doesn't _want_ to meet 'someone'. He'd never wanted that, not really. It was never a part of the landscape of his life as he'd pictured it.

It's not that Castiel never imagines himself with someone. Now, that is. Before, it wasn't something that he… allowed. It wouldn't have been possible then. But he can indulge himself now.

In his mind, he conjures the image of a man. Not too tall, but taller than himself. Probably older, too, by a couple of years. A weathered face lined with experience and wisdom, crinkles at the corners of brilliant eyes, and a warm smile. Well mannered—no. Not that. Well _intentioned_ , but a touch crude maybe. Kind, if a little rough around the edges. Broad shouldered with long, strong arms to encircle Castiel completely. If he concentrates he can feel large, calloused hands — nothing at all like his own — on his body, and coarse stubble rasping against his neck, chest, abdomen, thighs.

He comes with the vision of this fictional man swimming before him, and an echo of a deep voice saying his name with love and reverence.

Moments later Castiel debates getting up to shower, or just pushing the soiled sheets away and returning to sleep. The brief euphoria is already fading away, leaving hollow loneliness and faint regret. He masturbates regularly as a form of release and not much more. He's a doctor; he recognizes the signs of depression, yet can't force himself to truly examine it or even care.

Sometimes he thinks that he could've forgiven himself for screwing up his life so irrevocably if it had been for love.

* * *

Dean wastes another day and night's worth of money at the ridiculously expensive inn. The owner, Susan, seems to understand that he's a little strapped and gives him a discount — something about 'antiquing', whatever the fuck that is — but it'll still drain him faster than he'd like if he has to stay much longer. Not to mention the goddamn fine he needs to pay to get his baby out.

And so finally, reluctantly, he calls Bobby.

"Hell, boy. You only left here a month ago and you already got yourself in trouble."

"I'm not—" Dean sighs. "Look, you know I wouldn't ask, but—"

"Dean." The way Bobby says it, soft and yet somehow still sounding like 'idjit' anyway, makes Dean rush to speak over him. Because he can't hear that right now.

"No, listen. There's some stuff in those boxes I left in your spare room. Stuff from—" He stutters, takes a breath to stop his voice shaking. "I'm sure you could get a good price if you sell some of it. You know, just… just a few things maybe? And then you can wire me the money."

There's a long pause and Dean almost thinks they've been disconnected. Then Bobby sighs. "I took those boxes over to your dad's storage locker last week."

That pulls Dean up short. "Dad had a storage locker?"

"Apparently," Bobby huffs, and Dean can hear a rustling on his end. "John never was good about tellin' anybody anything."

Dean can't argue with that. Dad hadn't even seen fit to tell his own sons he was sick. Not until it was too late, anyway. "Um," he starts, but has to clear his throat. "What was in it?"

"I didn't go snooping," Bobby states, affronted, and Dean snorts quietly to himself. Then Bobby says, more gently, "Looked like a lot of old stuff… lot of your mom's things he musta packed away."

Dean's eyes lose focus and he blinks a couple of times. "Oh."

When they'd lost the house and moved to the first of many crappy apartments, a good deal of their belongings hadn't made the move with them. Dean always figured most of it was damaged in the fire, but he was just a little kid so it's not like he asked about it then. Makes sense that Dad kept those things; he always had trouble letting go.

"I got a notice in the mail that payment was due," Bobby says, after a few moments of silence pass. "Any idea why I'm getting your mail now?"

"Um…" 

"Don’t worry about it. I renewed it for you, another six months."

"Ah, Bobby, you didn't need to do that." Dean runs his hand through his hair. "If you'd told me, I'd've taken care of it."

"You can barely take care of yourself. Or are you _not_ calling me right now for help?"

"I'll pay you back. All of it. As soon as I can."

"You know I don't—"

"I will," Dean insists. He hates this. If he learned any lessons from his father, it's never owe anybody anything. Not even family. "It might take me a while, Bobby, but I'll repay you. For everything."

"Stubborn ass, just like your daddy," Bobby mutters.

"Yeah," Dean exhales an almost laugh. He scratches at the back of his neck. "I, um, I also kinda need a replacement headlight. Been driving for a week or so without it."

"Boy, when you get yourself stuck, you get stuck good."

"I just need a headlight, Bobby."

"You need some damned sense in your head. Have you talked to—"

"How long do you think it'll take you?" Dean says quickly to drown that out.

Bobby grumbles unintelligibly. "A week, maybe. I don't know. Hey, where did you say you were again?" When Dean tells him, the old man laughs out loud. "Boy, you got the most interesting karma I ever seen. Just so happens, I know a place you can go."

* * *

The building doesn't look like much from the outside — dark, rundown, tin roof awning slanting probably a little more than it should be — but the sign's lit up: _Harvelle's Roadhouse_. Dean wipes his forearm across his face, squinting at the windows. He'd walked the six blocks here. That's not a long way by any means, but the sun is hot and bright and he can feel a trickle of sweat down his spine.

The place is set back a ways from the road and surrounding buildings in a gravel lot. He can't see in at all; it almost looks abandoned, but the door opens when he tries it. The air inside is cool and dry. Dean breathes it in, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior after the brightness of the day. It's bigger than it looks from the outside. The bar is centered across from the door, booths lining the walls and tables spaced evenly around the room. Maybe it just looks big because it's completely empty. Dean sighs, shoulders drooping. If he came all the way out here for nothing—

Suddenly, there's something sharp jabbing into his back. He tenses up, going completely still. "I really hope that's not what I think it is."

"You wanna tell me who you are and what you're doing here?"

The voice surprises him, not at all what he'd been expecting. Slowly Dean turns, the pressure at his back lifts away, and he is face to face with a tiny blonde girl holding a pool cue. She shifts her weight, putting her hand on her hip, cocking one eyebrow at him, and says, "Well?"

Dean can't help it. He laughs. "What're you? Like sixteen?"

Her expression hardens, and Dean would find it funnier still but for the fact that she's a little bit scary. "I'm eighteen," she says.

"Well then, really, aren't you the one who isn't supposed to be in here?"

Her grip tightens on the stick as she taps it to the floor and holds it out away from her body. "Since my name's on the sign, I think, yeah, as a matter of fact I am."

 _Oh,_ he thinks. _Well, hell._ "Please tell me you're not Ellen."

"I'm Ellen," another voice sounds from the other side of the room. Dean chances a glance that way to see a woman now standing behind the bar. "Who's asking?"

"Uh…" His eyes flit between them, before settling on the older woman, Ellen. "Bobby Singer sent me."

She stares at him, almost _through_ him, for a long moment before her face brightens, a smile pushing up the corners of her eyes. "You must be Dean. Been expecting you."

He falters. "You have?"

"Got off the phone with Bobby just now. He asked me to be on the lookout." Ellen pulls the red checkered towel off her shoulder and tosses it down onto the bar. "Well, c'mon in, have a seat. I see you've met my daughter Jo."

"Yeah… Sort of." Dean glances back at Jo and she's now giving him a speculative look.

"You just gonna stand there?" Ellen asks, beckoning him again to the bar. "Or are we gonna talk terms?"

"Sorry, but," he says, making his way to the bar, "what exactly did Bobby tell you?" He hesitates to sit, wondering just what he's getting himself into here.

When Ellen finishes laying out her proposal, she leans over the bar. "So? That sound like a workable plan to you?"

Dean's not sure any of this is really happening, but he nods his assent anyway and accepts the beer she offers him. He could certainly do worse than this place, and he'll be damned if he's going to insult any of Bobby's friends.

Bobby wires him the money to get the Impala out of impound and to pay the fines. Dean's pretty sure Bobby dipped into his own savings for that, rather than touch any of those boxes in that storage locker. Dean just adds it to his ever growing debt, which he intends to pay back right down to the last nickel.

Trying to save all his money is a bitch, but working at the Roadhouse turns out to be pretty cool. He picks it up quickly, having spent a good portion of the last year in bars across America, and he gets along great with the other wait staff. Officially he's not allowed to tend the bar, but Ellen shows him the ropes anyway. Mostly he's doing a lot of the drudge work — heavy lifting, restocking, clearing tables, and , _ugh_ , dishes. They've got a limited menu, so at least there aren't too many greasy pots and pans.

Jo never lets up on giving him a hard time, but Dean gives as good as he gets. She waits tables since she's not of age to be behind the bar. They've got a nice back and forth going. Ellen hollers at them to _quit flirtin' and get to work_ , but it's not like that really. It's more… the teasing, the mocking, even one or two practical jokes… it's almost like having Sam around again.

Almost.

He doesn't think about calling Sam, though. Sam wanted a new life; that's what he's gonna have.

Dean gets another few nights at the inn by helping Susan chase bats out of her attic (no, seriously) and even a home cooked meal out of the deal. Susan is really grateful; her daughter was terrified of the sounds the bats made — all that flapping and screeching — thinking the place was haunted. Unfortunately, Dean just can't justify the expense for long, even with the discounts she's giving him, if he wants to be able to pay Bobby back any time this year. He finds a shitty, cheap motel way outside of town right on the highway. It's a good twenty minute drive from the Roadhouse, the manager is super sketchy, and he doesn't really feel safe leaving his baby in the parking lot, but there's not much choice.

While Bobby's busy trying to find him a working headlight, Dean builds up a sort of routine. He works as many hours as Ellen can give him, and charms her into letting him wait tables some nights so he can charm bigger tips out of the customers. He learns to mix drinks: Ellen shows him the simple, common ones; Jamie, one of the other bartenders, teaches him the more… exotic ones, a.k.a. the 'dirty joke' drinks that are only ever ordered at bachelorette parties or by newly-of-age college kids who can't gauge their own alcohol tolerance. (If Dean uses this as a more hands-on way to flirt with her, well… no one is complaining. Jamie takes him home with her one night and they have a good time.)

Ash, on the other hand, refuses to even acknowledge other forms of alcohol as he takes Dean through their extensive catalogue of beers. Ash has a philosophy on beer. Ash has a philosophy on pretty much everything, but his beer philosophy is pretty simple: Drink up! He has Dean taste-test a bunch of their imports along with the local brews on one of his days off. Dean gets so trashed he passes out and wakes up the next morning on top of a pool table.

All in all, Dean's enjoying himself, his work, and even the people around that he might dare to call friends. Enjoying it so much that he hardly realizes he's basically been kicking around this stupid town for almost a month. Bobby found him a headlight, and Dean replaced it easily enough. He could take off anytime now, get odd jobs wherever he goes to keep paying the old man back. There's really no reason to stick around, especially since he's basically spending every few nights in a crappy motel and the rest sleeping in his car.

But he shows up at eleven a.m. to help Ellen get ready for the lunch crowd, and stays even after his shift ends at seven. He nods at Jamie behind the bar, lips curving into a smile of _hey, how's it goin'?_ She winks back at him, and yeah, nothin' more there between them, but they're good. She'll be heading back to Boston soon to finish up her Master's degree. Dean can't remember what she said she was studying, but he knows she's pretty much way out of his league anyway.

Since he's technically off the clock now, but reluctant to leave (what with the whole 'no place to go' thing), Dean decides to get a beer and then maybe try to cajole Ash into a game of pool. Just for fun. There's no way he's betting money against Ash… again. (Frankly, Dean hasn't really tried to hustle anyone here — 'cuz having to see them after? _Awkward_.)

He bumps into someone on his way to the back where the tables are located. He steadies his beer with one hand, and the guy with the other. "Whoa. Sorry, man."

The guy — totally disheveled, tie askew, hair sticking up, and wearing a friggin' _trench coat_ in the middle of summer for god's sake — blinks up at him, head tilted to the side, and says, "I know you."

Dean feels his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "You sure about that?"

"I did not expect to see you still here," the guy responds in a flat, even tone. His voice is low, but deep, easily heard over the din.

"I don't… think I…" Dean squints at him, because he maybe does look a little familiar. The more closely he looks, though, the more he sees. There are dark circles under the man's eyes, his face is worn and weary, and that hair isn't styled like that, it's greasy and stuck up with dried sweat. The man sways on his feet and, without thinking, Dean puts a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, are you alright?"

"I am—I came for a drink." He seems out of it, but his eyes snap to Dean's almost laser-focused. "Is your wife doing well?"

"My what?" Dean draws back, but doesn't drop his hand from the guy's shoulder. "Buddy, why don't we, uh, get you a seat, huh?" He steers the guy toward a booth on the far side, away from the jukebox and most of the other patrons. As they pass the bar, Dean raises his beer toward Ash and two fingers, then points in the direction they're heading. Ash nods back with two thumbs up.

Dean slides into the booth, holding his beer on the table in front of him. The guy stares down at him for a long, uncomfortable moment before gingerly sitting across from him. He clasps his hands on the table, glancing around the place. Dean's never seen anyone look so ill at ease in his life. Well, not when sitting across from him at a bar, anyway. That's when it clicks.

"You're the doc from the hospital." Dean grins lazily, but the guy only half nods. Looking back to that night, he remembers thinking this guy was kind of a dick — he hadn't even come back to talk to Dean or the kid. Now, he looks smaller somehow. Dean sits up straighter. "You're lookin' a little rough. Bad day?"

He nods again. "Yes." He stares down at his hands, drums his fingers on the table, the sleeve of his coat brushes through a small puddle on the wood.

"Aren't you hot in that?" Dean asks, eyeballing the coat swimming around the guy's shoulders.

He looks down at himself, as though just realizing he's even wearing a coat. Or clothing of any kind. "It was raining earlier."

"Was it?" Dean looks up toward the ceiling like an idiot, but he can't remember it raining when he took out the trash this afternoon.

The guy shrugs. "It was raining last night when I left my apartment for work."

"Oh." Dean drains his beer and wonders what in hell is taking Ash so damn long. He looks back at the stranger across the table, licks his lip. "It's not raining now. Or, you know, indoors." He gives a soft, half-smile. "You could probably take it off."

The guy's hands flutter up to the lapels of his coat, stop there for a few seconds, before he pushes it back off his shoulders and struggles out of the sleeves. He lets the coat settle back behind him on the bench, then rolls up the sleeves of his white dress shirt.

"Better?" Dean asks, nearly distracted by the sight.

"Yes." His lips curl up at the corners, just a hint of a smile. "I apologize; I don't recall your name."

The thought briefly flickers through his mind to give a fake name, make something up, but it's not like it would be hard to discover he's lying. All the guy would have to do is ask anyone in the room. So, he sticks his hand out across the table. "Dean Winchester."

"Castiel Miles." And a warm, smooth hand slips into his, soft palm against rough, fingers squeezing briefly before letting go.

"Castiel." Weird name, but Dean doesn't comment. "Good to meet you, Cas. Again," he adds. "So… why was your day so terrible?"

Cas sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. Explains the mess up there. "It was long. And frustrating."

"Bet you probably have a lot of those. In your line of work."

There's that little almost-smile again. "Indeed. My fri—a colleague…" He rolls his eyes. "Friend. He keeps telling me I need to get out more, learn how to… _unwind_ ," he says it as though the very word is distasteful.

"Everyone's gotta kick back now and then." Dean gestures with his glass. "Otherwise we'd all go nuts."

"I suppose." Even his shrug looks tense.

Glancing toward the bar and seeing zero sign of Ash, Dean makes a decision. "Let me buy you a drink. We're gonna need something a little stronger than this." He raps his empty glass on the table twice, and climbs out of the booth. "Be right back."

* * *

He's on his second (or third, Castiel can't recall) drink and he's finally starting to feel the warm and relaxing effects. It's entirely possible that that is more the effect of the man still sitting across from him, though. Dean is… mesmerizing.

While Castiel fumbles his way through conversation, Dean is open and straightforward. He makes it all look so effortless. His smiles come naturally, his laugh lights his eyes and fills the whole room. Even when Castiel blunders over himself asking tactless questions.

"Nooo, no no no," Dean says through his laughter, wiping tears from his eyes, "I am so far from married, dude. I am, like, the opposite of married." 

He's explained, and yet Castiel still doesn't quite believe. "The boy?"

Dean's smile crinkles the corners of his eyes in a way that, absurdly, makes him appear even younger. "Nice kid," he says, swirling the last little dribble around his glass. "Not mine. Never seen 'em before in my life."

"And yet you remained there, waiting in the hospital, even after they were taken care of."

Dean shrugs, dropping his eyes to his suddenly restless fingers on the tabletop. "Someone had to make sure they'd be okay. I didn't want to leave them there all alone." For the first time Dean looks self-conscious, but it melts away a second later with another of his easy grins. "So yeah," he says, looking up right into Castiel's eyes. "I'm definitely… unmarried."

"I see." He does his best to hold that gaze, ignoring the way his face heats.

Dean looks away first. "Yeah, never saw that for myself. Marriage? Mortgage? Minivan? Don't really think that's in the cards for me."

He watches Dean closely for a moment and replies, quietly, "Nor me."

"Really? I'd'a thought you'd be all over that. Being a fancy surgeon and all. Wife, kids, picket fence, maybe a Pomeranian."

"No." Castiel shakes his head. "A dog would be nice, but I fear I'm not home enough to adequately care for one. It would be unfair to the animal."

Dean nods along to that. "I can't imagine, like, settling down and staying in one place for the rest of my life," he says with a breathy laugh, eyes cast to the side. Castiel can't help scrutinizing him, wanting to say, _'That's a lie,'_ but doesn't. Dean looks toward the bar and starts to stand. "I'm gonna get another. You want?"

"Oh. Yes, thank you." He watches Dean go, catches him glance back to the table and smile, and Castiel… has no idea what he's doing. He'd walked into this bar, weary and aggravated, looking to make the world disappear for a little while. He could've done that at his apartment, sure, but there lay all the trappings of his life not so easily ignored. He'd walked all the way here, hoping to find a place far enough from the hospital that he wouldn't run into anyone he knows. He'd wanted to be alone. He hadn't wanted to _talk_ to anyone.

And he hopes Dean comes back.

Castiel gulps the last few mouthfuls in his glass, too fast, and it goes straight to his head. His palms are sweaty, his pulse is accelerated, and he feels as though he can't quite catch his breath. He hasn't been this nervous since his hearing, and that was an entirely different kind of fear.

When he looks over at the bar he spies Dean chatting with the bartender, a beautiful blonde woman probably much closer to Dean's age than Castiel. She laughs at something Dean's said, and pushes at his shoulder. Castiel turns away then to stare down at his empty glass. Perhaps it is time to just head home. It's not too late, he could still get some reading done before bed.

"Hey, here ya go," Dean says, suddenly right beside Castiel's shoulder. He sets a colorful drink onto the table by Castiel's elbow. "You're not falling asleep on me, are you?"

Castiel blinks up at him. "No." He's sure he hasn't masked his surprise at all.

"Good." Dean seems to relax, but he doesn't yet sit. "Jamie made us a couple of her specialties. I forget what she called this one, but it's damn strong and it tastes like candy. Now, normally I'm not one for these fruity girl drinks, but she's pretty convincing when she wants to be."

"Ah, you seem very… friendly with the staff here." Castiel fiddles with the straw in his new glass.

"Yeah." Dean nods slowly. "I work here. Didn't I say?"

"No." A sensation Castiel doesn't want to label 'relief' washes over him.

"Oh, yeah. Ellen, the owner, she's kind of a… family friend, I guess you could say. She's doing me a favor, giving me a legit way to earn some cash. It's decent work, and everyone's cool. Anyway, I was gonna tell you there's a table free in the back." Dean gestures over his shoulder and Castiel tries to decipher where he's indicating.

"Aren't we… at a table?"

"I mean a pool table," Dean says, chuckling. "You play?"

After a moment of staring, Castiel hauls himself out of the booth, grabbing his coat off the seat. He smiles at Dean, and says, "I do. Shall we?"

During their game, Castiel's confidence begins to grow incrementally. It has little to do with the fact that he's winning.

"Is everyone in this town secretly a shark?" Dean stands back from the table, pool cue in one hand, drink in the other.

"The United States Army teaches a man many skills," Castiel replies, lining up his next shot. He sinks the ball easily.

"No kidding. You were a grunt?"

Castiel glares at him. "I was an officer." He shouldn't have brought this up. He misses his next shot.

"Sorry, sorry. My old man was a Marine," Dean says, as if that explains everything. He sets his drink down and moves around the table. "I almost joined up, actually. Right after high school, I was all set to go down to the recruiter and…" He shakes his head. "My dad talked me out of it."

"Perhaps he wanted something different for you."

"I guess." Dean lines up his shot, makes it. "I think mostly he just didn't want me to go out and get myself killed."

There are many things Castiel could say right now. _You are lucky,_ or _He cared for you,_ or _It was your choice, not his_. But he daren't say any of that.

"Is that not what most parents wish for their children?" he asks instead.

Dean meets his eyes and time unspools around them. He misses his shot, snorts and grabs his drink up again. "Anyway, he hauled my ass back home and lectured me for, like, an hour. And he… told me some things. Plus Sammy cried for me not to leave." Dean pauses, glass to his lips. "Ironic, really, all things considered," he mumbles so low that Castiel barely hears.

"Sammy?"

"Oh, my uh, my little brother. He's off at college now, out west." Again, Dean looks edgy, averting his eyes. Castiel knows better than to dig. He bends over the table, eight ball in his sights, and finishes the game.

"Alright." Dean downs the rest of his drink and slams the glass down onto the ledge by the wall. "Imma hafta get you way drunker if I'm ever gonna win a game. Ellen!" he shouts toward the bar, throwing an arm around Castiel's shoulders. "The good doctor here needs some shots! Stat!"

Despite himself, Castiel laughs at Dean's terrible joke. Dean guides him over to the bar with his arm still around Castiel's shoulders. He is warm all down the side of Castiel's body, close enough to smell the tang of alcohol on his breath and the hint of sweat on his skin. Castiel fears he does not smell nearly as good.

Dean leans in close, breath tickling the side of Castiel's neck and ruffling his hair. "Please tell me the army was exactly like _Stripes_ ," he says into Castiel's ear, louder than necessary.

He turns his head so that he can see Dean. Their faces are very close and he feels Dean's grin against his cheek. "I… don't know what that is."

"Are you joking?" Dean jerks back, frowning at him now. "You're not joking. That is a travesty!" His arm tightens around Castiel's neck, tugging him closer and hauling him to a stool at the bar. "We're gonna remedy that, man, but first we need shots. Ellen! Set 'em up!"

* * *

The night is hot, but there's a soft breeze over Castiel's overheated skin as he stumbles out of the Roadhouse with Dean's arm slung around him and their feet tripping together.

"Oh, man," Dean says, laughing. "I've never seen anyone drink Ash under the table like that."

Castiel has one arm around Dean's back to hold him up, and carries his coat draped over the other. He'd lost track of how much they drank, but Dean seems to be the more affected. His face is flushed, giving him a pleasant glow, and he's all soft around the edges.

"Seriously, dude, that was awesome."

He is still loud, and all of his movements are big, and he takes up more space than he should, but he's leaning into Castiel as though he doesn't wish to be anywhere else.

"It has been some time since I've indulged quite this much," Castiel admits. Dean's hot breath puffs against Castiel's neck. His lips catch on the open collar of Castiel's shirt.

"Shit. I haven't had this much fun in… a really long time." Dean's eyes drift somewhere far off, until he stumbles. "Whoa," he laughs again, and tugs at Castiel's shirt. "My car's over here."

They stop next to a large black car; Dean backs him up right against the door. He's still smiling, looking into Castiel's eyes, and his cheeks are a vivid, rosy red. He leans in, eyes fluttering closed, and Castiel barely stops himself gasping at the first touch of Dean's lips to his. Hands travel down his arms, his sides, coming to rest at his hips, and oh yes they are large. And rough. Castiel slides his own hands over Dean's shoulders, feeling the tight cords of muscle stretch.

The earth spins beneath his feet, and this moment is immeasurable. A boiling ache wells throughout his body, filling him with a burning so hot and bright he's surprised his skin doesn't blister. Dean's mouth covers his, arms circling Castiel's waist, pressing him all along Dean's firm body from chest to groin.

"I gotta," Dean mumbles into his mouth, removing one hand, and Castiel whimpers at the loss. "Keys," Dean says, and that hand gropes down near Castiel's hip, knuckles brushing dangerously close yet not near enough. "Dammit, I can't—" Dean pulls away to stuff his hand into his own pocket and dig out a set of car keys.

Castiel's hand drops down to grip Dean's wrist. "I don't—don't think I should allow you to drive in this state."

Dean leers, bringing their lips back into contact without quite kissing. "We don't really have to drive anywhere. Backseat's pretty big."

At that, Castiel pauses. Their lips are still touching, the heat from Dean's body is intoxicating, and Castiel is already inebriated. "Your friend Ellen has called me a cab," he says. "Where are you staying? I'll take you."

"Oh." Dean blinks at him, the grin falling. Castiel doesn't like seeing that. "I, uh, I'm kinda…" He turns his face away, head tipping toward his car.

Castiel cups Dean's cheek, nudging him back, and presses their mouths together again. The kiss is softer this time, the alcohol taste on his tongue less sharp. Headlights sweep over them and the emerging heat of an engine amplifies the already humid night.

Breaking the kiss, Castiel puts a bit of space between them, but he curls his fingers tentatively around Dean's hand. "Come. Share the cab with me." Dean follows, wordlessly.

He dozes off during the ride with his head resting on Castiel's shoulder. When they reach Castiel's apartment, he wakes Dean just enough to lead him inside. Castiel helps Dean onto the bed, ready to let him sleep, but Dean perks up then. His hands find Castiel's hips again, drawing him between Dean's spread thighs.

They manage to lie down side by side, making out and shedding clothing unhurriedly. Dean grabs his own t-shirt by the back of the neck, yanks it over his head and tosses it onto the floor to join socks and jeans and slacks and Castiel's white dress shirt. The healing gash on Dean's upper arm is striking, a glossy pink line standing out on the expanse of golden flesh. Castiel reaches up, skimming his fingers just below it. The skin has already knitted itself together into a ridge of raw-looking tissue, the stitches dissolving away to nothing.

"It will leave a scar," he whispers. Dean stares down at Castiel's hand on his arm.

"Most things do," he responds, voice gruff. His eyes flick to Castiel's lips, up to meet his eyes. Castiel threads his fingers into the hair at the back of Dean's head and pulls him up until their lips meet. He craves Dean's mouth, his skin, his scent, wants to be covered completely; he feels dizzy and weightless like he's floating through space. Each kiss sets him aflame. Each touch stirs him anew, even as their eyes begin to droop.

They fall asleep gradually, tangled together. Dean's head drifts to Castiel's shoulder, face pushed into his neck. The soporific sound of a heartbeat lures Castiel into deep dreams, and he can't tell if it's his or Dean's.

* * *

The first thing to register is that he has to pee. The second is that this is definitely not the backseat of the Impala. The pillow beneath Dean's head is plush and squishy, covered in soft gray cotton. The sheet covering him is white, with thin, barely visible gray stripes. The wall directly opposite is also a muted white, with honey-colored, slatted wood doors dead center.

The third thing is a distinct heat at his back. He rolls and finds Cas sitting up against the headboard. Watching him with wide, blue eyes.

Dean struggles to sit up, too, bunching his pillow up behind his back. "Um, morning?"

"Good morning," Cas replies, and his voice is even deeper than Dean remembers.

Picking at the sheet around his waist, Dean takes in the rest of the room. On the other side of the bed, Cas's side, there's a huge, colorful tapestry suspended from the ceiling, and beyond that what Dean guesses is the rest of the apartment. Weird.

"Uh, you got a bathroom?" he asks, and then mentally slaps himself because _of course he's got a fucking bathroom, moron._

"Just. Through there," Cas stutters, pointing out a narrow doorway beside the tapestry that he hadn't noticed before.

Dean is quietly relieved to feel he's still wearing his boxers, and he locates his jeans on the floor right next to the bed. He pulls them on quickly, zipping up as he makes his way into the bathroom and closes the door behind him, only to have to unzip again because he's gotta piss like a racehorse. And, well, he definitely didn't have sex last night — at least he knows that for sure now.

He washes his hands quickly and efficiently, splashes some water on his face, and stares at himself in the mirror over the sink. "The fuck are you doing, Winchester?" he murmurs.

It's not like this would be the first guy. The first in a good long while, sure, but it's nothing new really. Except where it is. Except where Cas doesn't seem like the kind of guy you just play around with. And how maybe Dean doesn’t want just that, either. He rinses his mouth out, and rubs some water quickly under his pits, too, fanning himself dry.

Easing open the bathroom door, Dean peeks into the bedroom to find it empty. He stares for a moment at the rumpled sheets (remembering Cas's hot mouth on his skin, the taste of his tongue) and the clothing scattered around the floor, before spotting his t-shirt in a ball. The smell of coffee draws his attention. He tugs his shirt into place, twitching his shoulders absently, before he scoots past the tapestry into the open plan kitchen-slash-living room of Castiel's apartment. And here Dean thought doctors all lived in fancy McMansions.

The doc himself is standing at the kitchen counter with his back to Dean, wearing light blue pajama pants with white fluffy clouds on them and a loose white cotton t-shirt. He looks soft and ruffled and completely at home. Which makes sense, Dean supposes, since this is his home. But when Dean takes a step, the floorboards groaning faintly beneath his feet, he notices Castiel's shoulders tense and his back go ramrod straight.

Dean steps around the little dinette table and chairs. He'd love a wall or something to lean against, but the whole place is just one open room. Also, he's kind of afraid to touch anything. He clears his throat and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Coffee smells good. I'm guessing that's not instant."

"No." Cas looks at him over his shoulder. "It's all I have," he says, sounding almost apologetic. "Would you—"

"Yeah, thanks."

A few minutes later Cas hands him a blue mug; Dean declines milk and sugar, not because he doesn't take those, but because… well he doesn't know why exactly. They sip in silence, and Dean takes the chance to look around some more.

All the walls are the same subdued white with high ceilings and tall, bare windows coming halfway down to just about chest height, making the space appear much bigger than it is. He knows they're on the ground floor, but through those windows all he can see is clear, blue sky. The door is tucked into a little entryway in the far corner where Dean sees his boots have been lined up neatly on a rug. 

The other side is the living room, apparently, containing an old TV on a low wooden stand, a blue sofa, a glass-topped coffee table, and two straight-backed chairs that don't look like they were designed for people to actually sit in. In the far corner there's a big pile of boxes that look like they haven't been unpacked yet. He wonders if maybe Cas has only just moved in. A flare of worry springs up, that maybe Cas is moving out. Away.

When he turns back around, Cas is watching him.

"So… you, uh, you probably got things to do, huh?" Dean asks, cradling his mug close to his chest.

"It's my day off," Castiel says. Dean says nothing, and Cas goes on, hurried, almost flustered, "No. I don't generally make plans on my days off."

"Oh." Dean takes the chance to move closer, rest his hip on the granite counter a few inches from Castiel's side. "Yeah, I get that. Time to… unwind." He grins, remembering Cas's words from last night.

"Dean?" Cas isn't looking at him now, holding his coffee in front of his face like a shield.

"Yeah?"

He pauses for a long time before lowering the cup to the countertop and looking up into Dean's eyes. "Are you f—How is your head?"

"Um, fine," is his startled response. He sets his nearly empty mug down, too.

"You are not feeling any ill effects from last night? I mean. From your excessive drinking."

Dean can't help it, he chuckles through his nose. "Nope. I'm good."

"You're no longer inebriated," Castiel says, not a question at all. He's inexplicably closer now, heat pouring off his body.

"No," Dean chokes out, voice suddenly thick.

"And you are…" Cas's hand slides along Dean's arm. "Amenable to this?"

"If that means 'do I want to'?" Dean asks, eyes dropping to Cas's mouth. He finds his fingers twisted in the hem of Cas's t-shirt. "Then yeah."

"Okay. Good." And Cas closes that last tiny gap between them, presses his lips to Dean's until he feels a hint of tongue and teeth. "Then come back to bed with me."

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Gabriel's talking again, or still, but Castiel isn't paying any attention. He hasn't been paying attention for the last few days, to be honest. He doesn't notice Gabriel has slipped three dessert plates onto his tray, in addition to the two Gabriel already has on his own, until they sit down at a table and Castiel goes to dig into the remarkably good lasagna from the hospital's cafeteria and finds that all he has is cake. Rolling his eyes, he drops his fork onto the tray and pushes the whole thing at Gabriel.

"Oh, if you're going back up, get me a piece of that key lime pie, too," Gabriel says, with his mouth full of chocolate mousse.

On second thought, Castiel snags the plate with the raspberry swirl cake and buttercream frosting, ignoring Gabriel's, "Hey!" He dips a finger into the frosting and brings it to his mouth. It's rich and delicious. When he opens his eyes, pulling his finger out of his mouth, Gabriel is staring at him.

"You're acting weird. What's with you?"

A good question. One Castiel can't truly answer. Fortunately, he's spared having to try by the appearance of Balthazar at their table.

"Good morning," Balthazar says, taking the seat next to Castiel.

"It's four o'clock in the afternoon."

"That's morning for some. You're not having the lasagna?"

Castiel shrugs, going back to his slice of raspberry swirl.

"What up, B?" Gabriel calls out, much louder than necessary.

"Chasing diabetes as always, Dr. Archer?"

"Whatevs, O-balls."

"He'll stop if I continue to not respond, won't he?" Balthazar asks; Castiel is only vaguely aware of him speaking, but his mind is elsewhere.

The fact is, he hasn't seen or spoken with Dean since he left Castiel's apartment later that evening, but he's thought of little else.

"What's with him?"

"Don't know," Gabriel replies. "He's been like that all week." 

It had been a… wonderful day. Possibly the best day Castiel has had in _years_. They spent the entire morning and afternoon in bed, until eventually they were ravenous for something other than each other. Castiel ordered food, because he never has anything in his kitchen, and they sat on the living room floor eating and talking. Dean had told him things, personal things, _secret_ things that Castiel has a feeling he's never discussed with anyone before. They're both orphans, alone more or less, cut adrift. Castiel is ashamed of himself for not giving back nearly as much as Dean gave to him, but there are parts of his life — like all of them before now — that he's still not ready to talk about.

It hadn't seemed to matter to Dean, though. He remained beautiful and undemanding and didn't leave until the sun was touching the horizon. Castiel would've asked him to stay longer, stay another night, if he hadn't had to work so early the next morning.

"He's not getting ill, is he? He's supposed to come with me to see the horses next week."

"You never invite me to play with the horses." Gabriel pouts.

"You know, I would, but I don't want to."

Dean had said to come see him. Or rather, what he'd actually said was, _'You should swing by the Roadhouse again, Cas. I'm there most nights and I still gotta beat you at pool.'_ It's not really an invitation, just something people say. Probably.

"Maybe he had a good day off." Gabriel nudges Castiel's arm, grabbing his attention, and winks.

"What, Cassie had a dirty weekend?" Balthazar scoffs.

They hadn't even exchanged numbers. Dean had said he was only 'passing through' town, anyway.

Castiel stands abruptly, knocking his plate away. "I have charts to look over."

The fact is, he'd had a one-night stand. That's all it was. Balthazar would be so proud if he knew.

His legs feel heavy as he trudges out of the cafeteria and back upstairs to the offices.

* * *

It's a week later when he sees Dean again. In the ER.

Technically, he hears Dean before he sees him. "Sonofabitch! Jesus, I'm attached to that."

Castiel follows the shouts and curses, reaches for the curtain, pulls it back to reveal Dean sitting on a gurney, cradling his arm close to his chest and glaring at a young blonde nurse. He looks up at the _chuushh_ sound the curtain rings make, and Castiel isn't certain if he's imagining the way Dean's face lights up.

"Cas. Hey." Dean grins. Then he glances sideways at the nurse. "I mean, uh, Doctor… Miles."

"Hello, Dean." Castiel takes a few steps toward him, adjusting the curtain back into place. "Nurse Clayton, I can take this from here."

"He's all yours," she mutters and stomps away.

"So," Dean says, still smiling, one leg swinging back and forth above the floor, looking not at all like he was just hollering and swearing. "How you been?"

"I am… fine." Castiel peers at the swaddling of dark cloth where Dean's hand should be. "What happened to you?"

"Oh, yeah, that. Um, mighta broke my hand." He lifts his arm, half wrapped in a towel full of ice. "But you shoulda seen the other guy." His grin, if possible, widens. "No, really, you should see him; he's right over there."

Following where Dean points, Castiel sees a large man — _very_ large — splayed out on another gurney, holding a wad of bloody rags to his face. "What did you do?"

"Hey, they started it."

He whips back around to stare at Dean. " _They?_ "

Dean heaves a big sigh, rolling his shoulders. "I was workin' at the Roadhouse when these two mooks got into it. Don't know about what, don't really care. Ellen tells 'em to take it outside. Jo's on standby waiting to call the cops. One of them throws a punch, they start brawlin', so I stepped in to break it up and busted my hand on that moron's face." He shrugs. "Least the other guy was smarter; he knew to stay down."

"May I?" Castiel reaches for his hand and Dean allows him to unwrap the sodden towel. A couple of ice cubes rattle onto the floor. "You could have been seriously injured, Dean."

"Nah, I'm fine. Hand hurts like a mutherfucker, though. Whaddo you think? Broken? Am I gonna need a cast? Cuz, man, I hate those." Dean is looking down at their hands. His cheeks are tinged pink. There's no hint of alcohol on his breath — he was working, he said. It takes a moment for Castiel to realize that Dean is embarrassed.

"We'll need to get your hand x-rayed," Castiel tells him, still holding Dean's hand in both of his. "But it looks like you've probably just severely bruised the bone."

"Shit." Dean hisses between his teeth. "That's gonna cost."

Lightly, Castiel brushes his thumb over the battered skin of Dean's knuckles. Dean doesn't pull away.

"Don't worry about that now," Castiel says. "Wait here, I'll go order an x-ray." He starts to turn away, but Dean catches the sleeve of his white coat with his good hand.

"Hey. You, uh, you never stopped by. At the bar, I mean."

"Oh, I…" Castiel blanks. Dean _had_ wanted him to come back. He stops himself from beaming like a fool. "I haven't had a day off since then. When I'm not here, I'm… sleeping, mostly," he says, sheepishly.

"Right." Dean nods and releases his sleeve. "So how long 'til your shift ends?"

Pivoting his hips so that he's facing Dean full on again, Castiel says, "Technically I should have left two hours ago."

"Then what the hell are you still doing here?"

"I had work to finish." It's not exactly a lie, even if he remains here later than necessary most nights. He straightens his shoulders, looking down at Dean. "And if I hadn't stayed, I wouldn't be here now to treat your stupidity."

At that, Dean's grin returns. "Lucky me, I guess. Hey, I could use a drink. You?"

"We—" Castiel flusters; Dean changes gear so quickly. "We have to take care of your hand first."

Dean nods, half-shrugs, bending forward to catch his eye. "But after?"

He studies Dean out of the corners of his eyes. "Perhaps."

* * *

In the end, they just go straight back to Castiel's place. He's barely got the door closed before Dean's on him. They trip over themselves getting to the bed, unable to disentangle long enough to walk straight. 

"Ow! Fuck!" Dean jerks when they land, clutching his bandaged hand to his chest.

"Oh! I'm sor—"

"Forget about it," Dean hums into his mouth, pressing their bodies together while holding his arm out of the way. "I'll live."

They have difficulty removing Dean's shirt, unbuttoning the cuff to get it over his hand. (It's not broken, just bruised as Castiel had suspected.) Dean keeps trying to wind his arms around Castiel and drag him closer, while Castiel's fingers are tangled in his shirtsleeve.

"Hold still."

"Hurry up!" Dean replies, mouthing along Castiel's neck. His good hand is busy working open Castiel's belt buckle. He is impressed that Dean manages it one-handed.

They finally get the shirt off, along with Dean's t-shirt. Dean flings them both across the room with enthusiasm and rounds on Castiel, one eyebrow cocked. As Dean moves over him, gently pushing him down into the pillows, all Castiel can think is _he's gorgeous._

* * *

He's dozing happily with Dean curled around his back, one arm draped over his waist, bandages scratchy against his bare stomach, when he happens to glance at his bedside clock. "I have to work tomorrow," Castiel says, words rasping past his dry throat.

Behind him, Dean goes very still. "Oh." He stretches, sliding his arm away, and Castiel immediately misses the touch of his skin. "Yeah, me too actually. I guess I should probably—"

"I don't have to be in early," Castiel blurts, rolling over too quickly and colliding with Dean. "I mean…" he falters, not wanting to move, but knowing that he is very nearly on top of the man. "I mean, it won't be an early morning if you want to stay…"

"I don't have to, if you need to get your sleep and—"

"You've slept here before. I can assure you that your presence is not bothersome." He stares into Dean's eyes until finally Dean's face softens and his body relaxes.

"Guess I could stay. Since I'm already comfortable and all." He lifts his arm and nudges Castiel until he gets the picture. They resettle with him laying his head on Dean's shoulder.

"My next day off isn't for a while," Castiel says. He's very suddenly not at all sleepy anymore. "Are you free next Wednesday?"

"I could be," Dean says slowly. "Ellen's pretty flexible with the scheduling."

"Would you… would you like to have dinner?"

"Dinner?"

"Or we could get that drink, since we skipped that part this evening." He knows Dean is watching him, but he can't meet his eyes.

"No. Dinner's good." Dean's voice sounds higher than usual. He clears his throat. "I, uh, I haven't really explored your town much yet. Where's good to eat around here?"

Once again, Castiel's mind goes completely blank. He has no idea. The only times he ever goes out to eat are when Gabriel or Balthazar drag him out, and he's not taking Dean to any of those places.

"What do you like?" he asks, by way of stalling.

"Um, I dunno. Regular food?" Dean shrugs, or tries to, but Castiel is laying on his arm so it kind of jostles him. Dean's good hand curls around his shoulder to hold him there just in case he was thinking of moving. (He wasn't.)

"I can have some suggestions for you on Wednesday?"

"Nothin' fancy," Dean warns.

Castiel hides his smile against Dean's chest. "I promise."

"Okay. Sounds like a plan." Dean's lips brush over his forehead, breath ruffling his hair. Castiel ignores the way he'd stumbled over that last word.

* * *

When he picks Cas up (His building is weird, some sort of converted warehouse or something, and each apartment has its own private entrance with a little half-walled patio. The upper floor has a balcony with a long staircase leading up to it.) Dean is tempted to just crowd him back into the doorway and start taking his clothes off right there. But Castiel is smiling shyly at him — that little not-quite-there smile of his — and his hair is combed and _neat_ for the first time that Dean's ever seen.

"You said nothing fancy," Cas says. His hands pluck restlessly at the hem of his shirt, and Dean realizes then that he's staring. Cas is wearing dark jeans (probably some designer brand the price of which would make Dean choke on his own spit, but still — jeans) and a light blue short-sleeved polo shirt with the collar open at the throat. Dean would be embarrassed for the staring if Cas didn't look so damn… hot.

"What?" Dean shakes himself out of it. "No, you're good. You look… yeah, it's good." He still feels underdressed in his best pair of jeans and black t-shirt. "We ready?"

Cas has a list of restaurants they could try, complete with menus and ratings and all kinds of crap, which Dean thinks is hilarious (and, though he'll never admit it, also kind of sweet — no one's ever gone through that kind of trouble for him before). In the end, though, Dean takes them to the Roadhouse again. Cas doesn't seem fussed either way. Some of the places he suggested sounded perfectly fine, but Dean's got his reasons. One: he knows the food at the Roadhouse, knows what's good, what's great, and what goes best together. Two: he knows the people at the Roadhouse. He's comfortable there, knows what to expect, and what he won't have to deal with.

And he's going on a friggin' date with another dude — there's a whole mess of bullshit he doesn't feel like having to deal with right now. In all honesty, as they're settling into a booth and ordering drinks, Dean can't stop thinking how this will be totally awful and the death of all the awesome hot sex he and Cas could be having right now instead.

An hour into it, he's glad to be wrong.

Cas is… _funny_. Once he's relaxed and had a couple drinks, he loses the stiff set to his shoulders, the nervous stammering. He speaks frankly, plainly, which Dean appreciates. He hasn't outright said anything but, judging by the other two nights they've spent together, Dean gets the impression that Cas doesn't like talking about his army background much; he lays out facts and no detail — army parents, army life, army career path. Cas never elaborates on why he left, but Dean thinks the hospital suits him better anyway (though he doesn't say that). He does learn that Cas has only been living here for a little under three years, and that that is one of the longer periods of time he's spent in the same place.

"It was meant to be temporary," Cas explains of his apartment when Dean mentions it looks like he's barely unpacked. "Balthazar helped me acquire the place — he lives on the floor above me, but he's hardly ever there. The previous tenant in my place was leaving on short notice and I was only supposed to be taking over the lease for the rest of that year, but…" He shrugs, eyes darting away, and Dean takes the hint again not to pursue that.

Instead, he smirks. "You got a friend named _Balthazar_?"

Cas nods. "I believe you met him at the hospital. Dr. Benoit."

"Ben Wa? As in… balls?"

Cas does this thing where he tilts his head to the side (Dean absolutely does not think it's cute) and narrows his eyes. "That's what Gabriel is always saying…"

Dean bites his lip; he's not going to be the one to explain that… not here in public anyway. He can't help but laugh, though. Then he pauses. "Gabriel?"

"He's a doctor at the hospital, as well. I suppose I don't know many people outside my job," Cas says, looking down at the table with a deep pink staining his cheeks.

"Well, hey, me neither." Dean gestures toward the bar and the crowd of people that had greeted him when they'd walked in. Cas looks up at him then, a pleased, almost grateful expression on his face. Turns out Gabriel's not just a colleague, he's also a third cousin by marriage who Cas hadn't seen since they were kids until Gabe recommended him for the job here, and he's become more of a friend since then.

Ellen picks that moment to walk over and clear their plates. "Winchester, didn't expect to see you back here tonight."

He shrugs, not up for explaining himself. "Since when do you bus tables?" he asks instead.

"Someone's gotta do it. Can I get you boys anything else?"

Dean raises his eyebrows at Cas who gives a slight shake of his head. "Nah, I think we're good for now," Dean tells her, holding up his half full bottle.

"Mmhmm." Her lips twitch, but she keeps a straight face. "If you get in late, try and keep it down, would you? Jo's got class in the morning." With that, Ellen stacks the plates and empty glasses up on her arm and carries them away.

Shaking his head, Dean mutters, "Sure thing." He looks up and Cas is peering at him with those curious blue eyes of his, head tipped to one side again. "Ah…" Dean wipes a finger through the condensation left on the table. "I'm kinda crashing here. Ellen and Jo live above the bar, but there's a small room in the back… Ellen chewed me out and insisted I take it." And hadn't _that_ been a fun conversation. "But it's just for now," he adds quickly.

"Temporary," Cas says, a strange note in his voice.

"Well, yeah. I mean, I can't mooch off the Harvelles forever."

"Of course." Cas is staring down at his hands now clasped together on top of the table, and Dean's not a hundred percent sure but it looks like his shoulders have slumped a little, too, like maybe he's bored or tired.

"So, army brat, huh?" Dean says stupidly, rapping his knuckles lightly on the table, and wincing because that hand still hurts a little. "That must've been interesting."

"I suppose." And Cas is back to watching him again, watching his hands in fact. "I always enjoyed traveling to new places. Observing new people and cultures." He reaches across the table and gently lifts Dean's hand in his own. "This looks much better."

"Um, yeah. Feels fine now." Dean flexes his fingers, feeling the smooth skin of Cas's palm against his. Cas snatches his hands back, darting glances around the rest of the bar. No one is paying them any mind, but Cas looks embarrassed.

"We moved a lot when we were kids too," Dean says, to break the tension. "Mostly stayed around the same areas, though, not so much with the… different cultures. Then my dad started up his own business and we kinda settled, I guess." He sighs, leaning back in his seat.

"You weren't happy to be able to stay in one place?" Cas folds his hands in front of him again.

Surprised by the question, Dean has to think about that for a minute. "It wasn't that, I don't think. I mean, Dad was getting better…" He'd told Cas about his mom, his dad, just the bare facts, that first full day they spent together in Cas's apartment eating chicken teriyaki and making out on his living room floor. He was grateful then that Cas seemed to understand enough not to ask questions, and he's grateful now when Cas just nods.

"Dad used to talk about that damn store like it was gonna save us all, or something," Dean goes on. "And Sammy was happy we finally lived some place he could bring friends over. No matter where we went, he always had friends."

Cas glances over to the bar and back. "You seem to have made a considerable number of friends here in such a short span of time."

"Making friends isn't the hard part. _Keeping_ them, on the other hand..." Dean takes a long pull from his beer. It's gone warm, but it's almost finished anyway. "Plus I kinda like being on the road. It's… it's new."

"How do you mean?"

"I dunno. It's…" He licks lips. "You get to see new things, meet all kinds of different people. Like here, in this town. Nobody knows me here. I could be anyone."

"You wish to be someone else?"

"Not—well." Dean shrugs. "I mean that people don't look at me and immediately know everything about me. To them I'm not John's son. Not Sammy's older brother. Not that Winchester kid who—" He shakes his head. "Nobody… There's no expectations on me. You know?"

Cas stares at him for a long moment before nodding, tiny smile curving his lips. "Yes. I think I understand."

And Dean gets the feeling that Cas really, _really_ does. He leans forward across the table, making sure to keep Cas's eye, and grins. "You wanna get outta here?"

He pays for their dinner. Cas tries to insist he should pay since he did the asking out, but Dean won't have it. He's not sure why, he just doesn't want Cas to always be paying for everything. Dean's still working to save up some money, still paying Bobby back for everything (hospital bills included), and he needs to start paying Ellen back for all her generosity — especially since he's practically a free-loader on her couch now — but he feels like he needs to show Cas that he's not some bum. He can take care of himself just fine, and he can treat his friends when he wants.

They drive around town for a while. Cas tells him where the river is, a small park, and how to get to the college, but other than a few landmarks it's pretty funny how much Cas doesn't know about his own town.

"There is a grocery store within walking distance of my apartment, and a coffee shop just around the corner from there, but other than that… and the hospital, of course, I suppose I don't really get out much," Cas says, watching his own hands twisting his seatbelt.

"Well, doctorin' probably keeps you pretty busy, right?" Dean offers. "Can't blame a guy for just wanting to chill out on his days off. Although, driving has always helped me unwind." He caresses the steering wheel. Cas had made the appropriate appreciative noises when Dean bragged about his baby, but he could tell the guy didn't really get it. It's okay, though.

"I've always found driving to make me more tense, to be honest," Cas says, sounding apologetic. "In any case, I no longer have a valid driver's license, so that's not really an option."

"Are you serious? How do you not have a license? Everybody should be able to drive, man."

Cas just shrugs. "I let it expire and never renewed it. It didn't seem important at the time."

His tone doesn't change, but the way Cas turns away to stare out the window is another indicator that this is one of those things he doesn't want to talk about. Dean, growing ever more curious, lets it go. There are things he doesn't like to talk about; he's not about to force anybody else.

"So, do you just walk everywhere?"

"I have a bicycle; that gets me where I need to go when the weather is good. Otherwise, we do have perfectly reliable public transportation in this town. And Balthazar is usually willing to drive me in bad weather. If he's around, that is," Cas adds as an afterthought.

Dean just shakes his head. "Man. I feel stranded without my wheels. I kinda hate having to wait around for someone else to pick me up or take me somewhere. Soon as I hit sixteen, I begged my dad to let me drive the Impala to school. I promised I'd drop Sam off, pick him up, chauffer him wherever he needed to go…" Dean chuckles. "No dice. He barely let me drive her at all. Not until—"

He cuts himself off. On his twenty-first birthday, Dad had smiled at him, handed him the keys and said, _'She's yours, Dean. I don't have to tell you to take care of her.'_ And then he'd driven himself and his dad to a bar where they got him his first (legal) drink.

Less than a year later, Dad collapsed at the store and their lives were never the same.

That memory of Dad giving him the car, taking him out, finally treating him like a man, is tainted by the knowledge that he knew then. Dad _knew_ he was sick, probably that he wasn't going to make it, and he didn't say a damn thing.

He realizes Cas is watching him, that the silence has gone on too long. Dean tries to smile, to shrug it off, and Cas just slides his hand across the seat and tangles his fingers with Dean's. They drive in comfortable quiet on a twisting two-lane highway along the river that loops back toward Castiel's apartment.

Dean doesn't return to the Harvelle's that night.

* * *

With Castiel's schedule, he doesn't get to see Dean every day. Sometimes it's more than a week between their 'dates' and Castiel is so restless, so keyed up, that when they finally come together it's electric, overpowering. Castiel has never let his control slip so completely before. He's never felt like this about— _with_ another person — thrills shooting through him, swinging wildly from jittery and anxious to all-consuming desire.

It definitely wasn't like this the last time he was with someone. And yet, if that hadn't happened, if Castiel hadn't made the greatest mistake of his life then, he wouldn't be here now. With Dean.

He likes waking up with Dean beside him, radiating heat. They tend to drift to their own sides of the bed during the night, but some mornings dawn with Dean's arm draped over Castiel's waist, holding him close. Often with Dean's erection hot and hard against his hip. Those are the days they don't get out of bed until well into the afternoon.

One lazy morning they drag themselves away from the bedroom, and Dean is appalled when he peers into Castiel's refrigerator. "Dude, do you just never eat?"

"Not much in the mornings, generally," Castiel replies. He's about to start the coffee, which he knows Dean likes.

"Okay. No." Dean shuts the fridge, comes up behind Castiel and covers his hands, holding them still. "We gotta go out and get something, because after last night?" His mouth is hot on the side of Castiel's neck, lips parted, tongue tickling. "I'm fucking starving," Dean mumbles into Castiel's skin, sending shivers across his shoulders and down his spine. He sways back into Dean's warmth, surprised when Dean pulls away abruptly and pats him on the ass. "C'mon! Breakfast!"

After that Castiel begins stocking his kitchen with eggs, bacon, milk, bread, and even a couple boxes of blueberry muffin mix because he's sure Dean will like it. Dean then surprises him one morning with the most elaborate breakfast he's ever seen in his life. And Castiel eats every bite.

They don't _only_ lie around Castiel's apartment; it's not as though all of their time together is spent in the bedroom (or on the sofa, or the floor, or the table that one time…). They continue to go out. Dean usually drives them someplace for dinner before anything else happens. More often than not they go to the Roadhouse; he understands that Dean feels at home there, in a strange way, and Castiel has come to enjoy the atmosphere and the people that populate the bar. But they've tried a few other places in town, as well, a few from Castiel's list. Dean convinces him to go see movies he otherwise probably never would have even heard of, and he enjoys them.

It's so warm and sunny out that he can occasionally persuade Dean to leave his car parked outside the apartment and just walk with him. It's not as though they're strolling down the street arm-in-arm or, dear God, _holding hands_ , but it's… nice. Dean is even more stunning in direct sunlight, his hair and skin and smile shining brilliantly.

They stop for ice cream at Mr. Cone's (Dean makes a vulgar joke about the name, and Castiel even laughs) near the center of town. Out front there are picnic tables with big red and white striped umbrellas, and Dean claims one before any of the children running about can get to it first. He's holding his double-chocolate-Snickers-swirl in a waffle cone with one hand, and a bundle of napkins with the other. Dean side-eyes Castiel's blueberry ice cream in a plain sugar cone, but gives him a pass for topping it with whipped cream. They both agree that cookie dough ice cream is just not right.

"Why would you eat raw cookie dough?" Dean says, licking a drip of ice cream off his hand. "If you've got cookie dough, just fucking make cookies." Distracted by the swipe of pink tongue, Castiel can only hum his agreement.

Across the street there's a small bookshop, and down from that what looks like a florist's and a little produce market. They're really only a few blocks from the hospital, and yet Castiel hardly ever ventures along this way. He starts to mention that to Dean, but stops short. Dean's attention is focused across the street, expression pinched and mouth turned down. Following his gaze, Castiel spots several students exiting the bookshop carrying bags with the shop logo. One is wearing a university t-shirt, and Castiel realizes that this place must stock items for the college.

A second later, he is acutely aware that of course students would be purchasing their books now, because the summer is nearly over. Dean's young friend Joanna Beth is currently taking summer courses, but it can't be long before the fall semester begins.

It's a strange sensation, acknowledging the passage of time. It feels as though the summer has only just begun, that merely weeks ago these streets were covered with snow and ice, but here it is late August already. Castiel remembers summers of his youth that seemed to go on for ages. Time is so fleeting the more one becomes aware of it.

His ice cream is melting; Castiel licks around the edge trying to keep it from dripping all over his hands. Dean is still watching the kids across the street as they laugh and joke with one another. He looks almost wistful. But that makes perfect sense, Castiel tells himself. Dean probably wishes to spend more time with people his own age, rather than…whatever it is he's doing with this foolish old man.

A soft chuckle pulls Castiel from these maudlin thoughts. Dean's eyes are back on him, and his face is clear and happy once more.

"Dude, you've got—" Dean laughs again, leaning across the table. He brings his face very close, keeping eye contact, then swoops in and licks the corner of Castiel's mouth.

Surprised, it takes a second for Castiel to pull away, glancing around them to see if anyone was watching.

Dean doesn't seem to notice, or care; he just hands Castiel a couple napkins. "Here. You're making a mess, man." He licks his own lips. "Mm. I guess blueberry's pretty good."

Face burning, Castiel wipes his mouth and hands as best he can, trying not to drop his cone or dribble anywhere else. Dean seems to have already devoured his and is now eyeing what's left of the blueberry. Castiel takes one last bite before handing it over.

They see a movie that afternoon, and say goodnight at Castiel's door — Dean's headed for a night working at the Roadhouse, and Castiel has to wake up far too early in the morning.

* * *

Balthazar corners him the next day. "I saw you," he whispers ominously in a sing-song voice as they both shuffle into the elevator.

"Pardon?"

"Don't give me that innocent look, Cassie." He raises a hand above eye-level. "Man about this tall, biker boots, really fine arse in a tight pair of jeans, seen leaving your apartment on more than one occasion in the past few weeks." Balthazar looks at him expectantly. "Well, dish."

"You haven't even been home the past few weeks," is the first response that comes to mind. Castiel is too busy regulating his breathing, determinedly keeping his eyes forward.

"Oh, I have. Been spending more time there lately. And I haven't just _seen_ you, if you catch my meaning."

"It's not—" Castiel splutters. "This is none of your—"

The elevator comes to rest and the doors slide open to reveal Gabriel waiting for them. "You found him. Great." Gabriel steps aside to let them exit. He turns to Balthazar. "What did he say?"

"Nothing yet." Balthazar continues eyeballing him over the top of Gabriel's head. Castiel tries to walk away from them, but they simply hurry after, flanking him. He's trapped.

"It's that guy from the bar fight last month, isn't it?" Gabriel asks, now looking at Castiel. "I saw you leave with him that night."

"Cassie's dating a barroom brawler? Priceless!" Balthazar claps his hands together. He raises one eyebrow. "Wouldn't have thought that was your type, though."

"I don’t have a type," Castiel mutters, picking up his pace, silently grateful that Balthazar clearly doesn't remember Dean from their first meeting.

"And why didn't you tell me about that sooner?" Balthazar asks sharply, but he's addressing Gabriel. "I told you the moment I saw him sneaking out Cassie's door."

"He was not sneaking—"

"You weren't here," Gabriel replies with a shrug. "And sometimes I don't like you."

"Pfft." Balthazar waves his hand dismissively. "That's your excuse for everything. This is more important than your jealousy."

"Hah!" Gabriel throws his head back. "You wish."

"Oh, so you _do_ think your jealousy is more important than our friend?"

Sighing, Castiel tries to tune them out. Gabriel retorts, Balthazar makes another dig, and back and forth like always, but when they start talking about him again as if he's not even there, Castiel shouts, "Enough!" He comes to an abrupt standstill, and rounds on them, fuming.

Gabriel turns his focus entirely on Castiel. "You realize he broke that guy's nose, right?"

His annoyance has boiled over to anger now. "The other man started it. Dean was only trying to toss them out before anyone else got hurt."

"Oh, _Dean_."

"A name! Finally."

"And you will both stop this at once. I'll not have you discussing me behind my back." With that, Castiel turns on his heel and continues marching away.

"Hey, wait!" Gabriel calls out behind him.

Reluctantly, Castiel stops and only half-turns back, ready to walk off. Gabriel approaches slowly, and Castiel doesn't trust that look on his face.

"This guy. Dean," Gabriel says. "Whatever he's doing… tell him to keep it up. You look happy, bro."

Flicking his gaze back and forth between them — Gabriel still with that odd expression, Balthazar with a soft smile curving his lips and forming tiny wrinkles around his eyes — Castiel lets his shoulders drop, relaxing his spine. "I'm sure you both have things to do," he says.

As he walks away, slower now, he shakes his head at himself, at his friends. They do care about him, he knows, but this was one thing he was wanting to keep to himself, just for a little while longer. He'd just wanted to keep it, keep Dean, for as long as he could.

Every night that Dean spends with him after that, Castiel perhaps grips him a little too tight, kisses him a little too hard, and watches him sleep a little too often (idly wondering if Balthazar is above them with his ear to the floor, listening).

* * *

It hits Dean as he steps out of the Roadhouse and there's an obvious bite in the air. Not just a cool breeze, but a definite chill, and it's only midday. He's pulling his (Dad's) old leather jacket out of the car, when he notices the leaves on the trees have already changed color and started to fall.

All of a sudden he feels a twisting, gnawing in his gut, and a sharp shortness of breath. He's been chillin' in this town for a few months. Coasting. And, just now, he really wants to go home. He's… homesick.

But not for that shitty apartment he left behind, not for all the stuff he'd sold off, not even for the town he grew up in. No, it's a longing ache for the days when they were all still together — Dad, Sammy and him. He thinks further back, when Mom was still alive — beautiful and golden in one of her light summer dresses, cutting the crusts off his sandwiches, tucking him in at night, the lavender scent of her perfume always lingering behind even after she'd kissed him goodnight and turned the lights out.

He's already halfway out of town, stopped at the Texaco, when he pulls his phone out. Cas answers on the first ring.

"Dean. Hello." He sounds so… happy. A little surprised and delighted. Dean doesn't usually call when he knows Cas will be at work. Part of him wonders if he'd been hoping to get the voicemail.

"Hey," Dean says. He rubs a hand over his jaw and around to the back of his neck. "You're working all weekend, right?"

"Yes." It sounds like Cas is walking quickly, then a door snicking shut. "My next break isn't until Tuesday."

"Okay. Well… okay." The pump clicks off; Dean removes the nozzle, replaces the gas cap and flips the license plate back. "So, look, I gotta, um. Something came up, I have to go see an old friend of my dad's."

"Is everything all right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's fine, but I gotta head out there today, so…" He wipes his hand on his jeans and climbs back behind the wheel.

"When… will you be back?" Cas doesn't sound quite so happy anymore. Dean wants to punch himself in the face.

"Uh, I dunno." He squeezes his eyes shut, fist clenching on the steering wheel. "It might take a while."

"Oh." There's a long, _long_ pause. "Well… drive safely."

"Yeah, I will." He's got the key in the ignition, ready to turn, ready to hang up and go. But words fall out of his mouth in a rush: "Hey, I'll call you when I get there."

"Okay." Cas still sounds cautious. "If I can't answer—"

"Leave a message, I know. Don't work too hard while I'm gone." Dean grins in spite of himself. He hesitates just a second longer, fingers twitching on the key. "And I'll see you when I get back."

There's an agonizing beat of silence before Cas says, "I'll see you then, Dean."

He thinks about turning around three times before he's even halfway through Ohio. The drive to South Dakota is longer than Dean remembers. He was sure he could've made it all in one straight shot, but he ends up taking a break just inside Iowa. The craptastic motel room has him longing for the clean, cool expanse of Cas's big bed. Hell, his room at Harvelle's is ten times nicer.

He begins and erases two messages, but eventually he texts Cas that he's almost there and stopping for the night. He thinks maybe it's too late and Cas has already gone to bed, but a few minutes later he receives: `Goodnight, Dean. Pleasant dreams.`

He does sleep after that, tucking the extra pillow close to his side.

* * *

Bobby greets him with a raised eyebrow and not a lick of surprise. He explains as Dean steps in and drops his duffel at his feet. "Ellen told me I should be expecting you."

Dean just barely refrains from rolling his eyes. "What, do you guys have, like, a direct line to report every time I do anything?"

Ellen had also called Bobby when she found out Dean was sleeping in his car, so of course she felt the need to check in when Dean asked for a few days off. He wonders what else she might've been saying to him. Dean knows she knows that every night he isn't sleeping in her back room he's spending it with Cas.

He also knows that she knows he isn't spending nights (or days) with anyone else.

But Bobby doesn't make any mention of it while they catch up over lunch (leftover chili) and a couple beers. Bobby does, however (and somewhat to Dean's relief), have a business to run, which involves a lot more filling out forms and hollering over the telephone than working out in the salvage yard or the garage. Before Bobby sequesters himself in his office, Dean asks him about that secret storage locker of his dad's.

"It's just a bunch of old junk," Bobby says, holding the keys in his fist. "You won't find anything useful there, son."

"Well, it's a bunch of old junk that belongs to me now, right?"

"I s'pose it does. You and your brother both." Bobby eyes him from beneath his hat.

"I'll make sure Sammy gets what belongs to him," Dean says, holding his hand out for the keys. Finally, reluctantly, Bobby slaps them into his palm.

It's a two hour drive to Dad's lock-up because the man couldn't ever do anything simply. The place — Castle Storage — is in the middle of nowhere, but a lot closer to Bobby's than where they used to live. When he reaches number forty-two in the long corridor, Dean hesitates. Dad clearly didn't want him to know about this, maybe there's crap in here he doesn't want his kids to see… Then he thinks _fuck it_ , and opens it up anyway.

It's a small one, at least, eight-by-eight, but it's packed pretty tight, floor to ceiling with boxes. Dean lets out a low whistle. "Dad was a fucking packrat."

Overwhelmed, he doesn't even know where to begin. He spots the boxes he'd left at Bobby's right away in the front. Since he already knows what's in those — mostly supplies from the store that didn't sell or get repossessed, and a couple of knick-knacks from the old apartment — he pushes them out of the way.

He quickly clears himself a place to sit in the middle, and grabs whatever's closest. The first box he opens is a bunch of papers tossed in haphazardly. A quick shuffle through reveals mortgage statements, insurance claims, a lot of legal crap about the house and the fire, and pretty much everything Dean doesn't want to look at right now, or ever. He shoves that box as far away as possible.

The next few are full of old clothes, his dad's mostly, work shirts and a couple jackets with holes in them, and seriously Dad kept some stupid junk. Who knew their father was such a sentimental sap? Dean finally reaches a box with actual stuff in it. There's a soccer trophy from 1995 — must be Sam's; Dean doesn't do shorts. Underneath that is one of Sammy's sneakers. Just one, though, with a hole worn through the toe, from early middle school judging by the size (before he'd hit his growth spurt). And a rabbit's foot he remembers Sam carrying around when he was about ten or so. It's all ratty and funked up, and to be honest the ugly-ass piece of dead thing had always creeped Dean out; he leaves that in the box without touching it.

He doesn't even know if Sammy will want any of this… _memorabilia_ or whatever, but he boxes it back up and sets it aside — Sam'll get all pissed off if Dean tries making decisions for him again.

There are a couple more boxes of Sam's stuff — soccer uniforms, report cards, honor roll bumper sticker (because Dad may have been proud, but he wasn't about to mess up his car… for which Dean is grateful), and a few toys that might have been Dean's first, but almost everything of his ended up in Sam's hands sooner or later. After the fourth box of Sam-stuff, Dean's beginning to wonder if he even _had_ any childhood belongings worth keeping.

Then he finds a box of baby clothes, ones he knows Sam never wore. It's not like he remembers wearing this tiny red onesie with a smiling train on it, or the little blue t-shirt with a teddy bear and the words 'I Wuv Hugz' printed across the front. But he knows these were his. It's hard to believe he was ever that small. He lifts up another piece of fabric that turns out to be a fuzzy green blanket with racecars all over it, and his mind softly tugs forth a memory: laying on the floor on his stomach watching cartoons, while Mom sat beside him with baby Sammy in her lap, letting him slobber all over the corner of Dean's blankie because nothing else seemed to make him happy.

Fisting the blanket in one hand, he pulls it out of the box completely and lets it fall into his lap. Underneath that, his fingers pause on white cotton decorated with little pink roses. Delicately, Dean pinches the edges of his mom's dress between his fingers. He slowly draws it out of the box, the fabric drooping and wrinkled, and brings it up to his face, but it just smells like musty cardboard. He doesn't know why the material is suddenly damp in his hands.

* * *

Back at Bobby's, Dean holes up in the same room he'd claimed when he stayed here for a few weeks this past spring (the one year anniversary of Dad's death was… difficult, to say the least, on his own). There are two matching twin beds, one of which is still stripped bare, and a little wooden dresser fit for an eight-year-old. Dean has always wondered why Uncle Bobby didn't have kids, but he'll never ask. (He's always believed Bobby would've been a great father.)

Dragging the few boxes he'd taken from Dad's lock-up over to his bed, Dean spreads them out around him and then… stares at them for a while. He hadn't gone through everything thoroughly while he was there. The boxes filled with old clothes and papers he mostly left alone (though he did take a few of his father's old work shirts and jackets, the ones without too many holes or stains in them), and Sam's boxes he piled up in a corner so that, one day, Sammy could come get them if he wants.

He'd eventually found some more of his own stuff — like his very first BB gun, the one Dad got him when he was six and taught him to shoot. Thinking back on that now, Mom probably would've had a fit if she'd been around. There were a few boxes of toys, too — some racecars with a broken plastic track, and little green army men half melted and fused together. Those he left.

In front of him now are boxes filled with pictures. Dozens of photographs, some so old they've discolored to purple or orange. There aren't that many of him, even fewer of Sam. No, they're mostly of Mom.

Uncapping the bottle of whiskey he bought on his way here, Dean takes a drink and sets it down on the floor next to the bed. Many of the pictures are of Mom by herself, slim and petite and always smiling at the camera. There's one of her posing in front of the Impala (not like a pinup girl, thank fuck) with an exasperated look on her face. Then there's one in front of their house, white and plain, no flames coming out the windows. Mom's off to the side, pointing at it proudly with one hand, while the other is placed over her rounded belly.

Scattered throughout are pictures of the both of them, Mom and Dad back when they were just Mary and John. Two crazy kids in love, his dad had said on more than one occasion when deep into a bottle. Dean wonders what kind of life they might've had if he'd never been born. 

He's halfway through a bottle himself before he even gets to the later photos. Mom and Dad with him, floppy-haired and toothless (god, that haircut had to be Mom's doing). Mom and Sammy in front of a window, bathed in light and all aglow like angels.

Him and Sam dressed for Halloween. Sam's first Halloween. And Mom's last.

Dean is Batman, and Sammy's a fat round pumpkin. It was the only store-bought costume Sam ever had, after that it was usually up to Dean to throw something together using whatever he could find.

He stares at that picture for a long time, at their happy, smiling faces. Sam's sitting on the ground with a smaller pumpkin-shaped bucket between his legs. Dean's standing next to him, holding tight to Sam's hand. Mom is blurry in the background behind Sammy, waiting to catch him if he falls. 

Dean had come here with an idea of taking all this stuff with him, or getting rid of it once and for all. Something… final. But he's no closer to home than he was yesterday.

He nearly finishes the bottle, has a vague notion of talking to Sammy and showing him what it used to be like, and ends up passing out sprawled across the bed, the pictures of a life long gone strewn around him.

* * *

The bedroom door slams open early the next morning. Dean groans, burying his head under the pillow. Bobby stomps across the floor as loud as can be, and then the room is flooded in light.

"Rise and shine." Bobby yanks the pillow away from him. "Get up, and get in the shower. You stink. Then get your butt downstairs for breakfast. You've got ten minutes, then I'm comin' back up here with a shotgun."

After he leaves, Dean curls up tighter on the bed, photographs crinkling beneath his knees. A loud clang from the floor below gets him moving, though — Bobby ain't foolin' about the shotgun.

The shower eases the tension out of his neck and shoulders, but does nothing for his head. Dean doesn't get truly hung over often, but this is more than that; he's completely drained. His insides feel like the scraped raw walls of a jack-o-lantern.

Getting dressed in his room, he surveys the mess he'd made of his parents' photos. They should be in a family album or something. That's a task his mom probably would've handled; his father sure as hell didn't bother. Dean quickly sweeps them off the bed and back into their box. Bending down with a groan, he picks up the bottle and spots his phone next to it on the floor and… _shit_.

Last night he'd… yeah. He has hazy memories of dialing Sam's number. Repeatedly. Well, he had to keep calling back, Sam's voicemail kept cutting him off. 

Sinking down onto the bed and dropping his head into his hands, Dean wonders just how many rambling messages he'd left his brother. He can't even recall what he'd said. Stuff about home, probably, and mom and dad and them. Did he tell Sam where he was? His head's too fuzzy, and there's a hollow soreness in his chest.

Checking his phone shows him no missed calls or messages. It's early, though. Maybe Sammy's sleeping one off. No one in California threatening to blast him full of buckshot. Dean makes his way downstairs as fast as his unsteady legs will take him.

Coffee has never smelled so good, even Bobby's black sludge. Although, after Dean takes his first sip, he misses Cas's coffee so sharply it takes him by surprise. He covers it by shoveling scrambled eggs and sausage in his mouth. Bobby may only know how to cook a few things, but he knows how to cook them fucking perfectly.

Neither of them are big talkers, so Dean's not expecting much conversation this morning. Bobby's always been able to throw him for a loop, though.

"How you farin'?"

Dean blinks at him. "Room's not spinning anymore."

"I wasn't just talking about this morning. Ellen says you're fitting right in at the Roadhouse."

"Yeah, I guess." Dean shrugs. "My kinda people, you know."

"You're okay there, then?" The tone of his voice makes Dean really look at him this time. Bobby's older than Dean's dad (would be) by a few years, and the years are starting to show. He's still young enough to kick Dean's ass, though. Again, he has the fleeting thought that Bobby really should have been someone's father.

"Yeah, Bobby," Dean replies softly. "I'm doing good. I like it there." He feels the smile on his face and can do nothing to hide it. For a brief moment he considers telling Bobby about Cas, just saying, _'Yeah, I'm seeing someone. He's a doctor,'_ and waiting for a reaction. But he doesn't. Not yet.

One thing he always forgets is that visits to Bobby's mean doing chores. Dean helps out around the yard and in the garage, both things he enjoys and would probably do anyway. But he also gets roped into cleaning out gutters, raking leaves, and washing up all the dishes.

He stays another night, and the next morning decides it's time to go back.

"Should I tell Ellen you're heading back now?" Bobby asks the minute Dean appears downstairs with his duffel slung over his shoulder and a box under his arm.

Dean rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. "I'll call her and tell her. I got… uh, I got something to take care of when I get there first. Wanna help carry this stuff out to my car?"

"No."

Snorting, Dean continues out to his car to stash his stuff in the trunk. On his way back upstairs to get the rest of the boxes, he pauses. "Hey, Bobby? Would Ellen happen to know anywhere I could get some cheap furniture?"

* * *

Castiel has never fully understood all the complaints regarding Mondays. It's just another day, the start of another week for most people, but today Castiel _hates_ Mondays because this one is interminable. He just wants this day to be over so he can go home and sleep forever.

It has nothing to do with the fact that Dean hasn't called him once all weekend. Not since he left town last Wednesday. He'd received two text messages, each letting him know that Dean had reached his destination, but nothing else. Even though Dean had _said_ he would call.

He's been snapping and growling at the residents all day, and he's fairly sure all the interns are hiding from him. He's avoided the knowing looks from Gabriel, and he skipped lunch to escape being shanghaied by Balthazar — the last thing he wants is to be dragged out to a club or bar. (Fortunately, he's managed to keep himself together in front of patients. And during surgery his mind is always completely focused on the task at hand.)

He has just two more hours until he can, in good conscience, leave for home when his phone vibrates in his pocket. It's a text message from Dean: `Hey I'm back`.

Castiel stares at it and nearly drops his phone when it vibrates again in his hand. The second message is also from Dean: `U still at work? I'll come pick u up`.

And then immediately following that: `Got a surprise`.

Before Castiel can think of a reply, two more messages come in rapid succession: `Think you'll like it` and `I hope`.

The anxiety and… peevishness he's been feeling the past few days recede, and Castiel knows there's a smile stealing onto his face. He tries to scold himself for being taken so easily, but he can't quite muster up the ire. He quickly types a response to let Dean know he'll be ready to go in two hours.

He does his final rounds for the afternoon, stopping for a chat with Mrs. Hackett, who's constantly teasing him about being a young, single doctor, and trying to set him up with her grandson (that her grandson doesn't appear to be gay isn't really a factor, apparently).

"If only you'd agree to meet him. Perhaps for coffee; that's what you young people are doing now, isn't it?"

"I have met him, Mrs. Hackett—"

"I've told you to call me Maddie."

"Maddie," Castiel amends. "I've met him, _and_ his lovely girlfriend." She makes a derisive noise and begins to reply, but Castiel forestalls her, "Actually… I am seeing someone." 

That seems to leave her speechless (for the first time in her life, probably), gaping at him. She recovers quickly, grinning slyly at him. "Well, look at you, doctor. You're blushing! He must be a special one, keeping him all to yourself."

"He is," Castiel says, "and I'm going to be late if I don't hurry. Good evening, Mrs. Hackett. Be sure to rest now, and you'll be going home in just a couple of days."

Making his way quickly down the corridor, he wonders if he'll have time to shower before Dean arrives. He'd at least like to change his clothing. He swings by the desk to hand charts to an intern, and is nearing the locker room when Gabriel steps in his path.

"Hey! In a hurry?"

Castiel tries to step around him. "Yes, I am, if you'll—"

"See you got the spring back in your step." Gabriel rocks on his heels. "Good, cuz I gotta tell you, people have been a little afraid of you lately. You made Dr. Turner cry." His grin widens.

"I did no—"

"Don't get me wrong; it was hilarious! But not really like you. And I'm guessing it has something to do with that jackass you've been sneaking around with." Gabriel's expression is suddenly very serious.

Castiel maintains eye contact. "We have not been sneaking around."

"Look, bro," Gabriel says, face softening, and slings an arm around Castiel's shoulders. "I know you like this guy—"

"Gabriel—"

"But you don't exactly have the best track record, remember. I'm glad you're finally gettin' some, but I'm just sayin'. Be careful."

They're both silent for a moment, then Castiel shrugs Gabriel's arm off. "This is nothing like that. Dean is different." At Gabriel's skeptical look, Castiel squares his shoulders. "I am fine, and capable of taking care of myself. I do appreciate your concern," he adds because, as annoying as it may be, he really does.

Gabriel seems to understand, or at least accept that; he slaps Castiel on the shoulder and tries to muss his hair. Castiel would be irritated at the way Gabriel often treats him like a little brother, except that… he sometimes likes it. He promises he'll call Gabriel if or when he needs to, and they part ways.

"And hey," Gabriel calls after him, "if he ever fucks up I can have a cadaver found in the trunk of his car, just say the word."

Shaking his head, Castiel rounds the corner, and runs smack into— "Dean!"

"Hey," Dean says, looking just as startled for a second before a lopsided grin slips onto his face. "Am I too early?"

"No, no you're—" Castiel checks over his shoulder. "How long have you been waiting here?"

"Not long." Dean shrugs, affecting nonchalance that isn't quite convincing. "You all set to go then?"

"I was going to change first—"

"Nah, skip it, you're fine. C'mon."

For some reason, Dean seems anxious, nervous even, so Castiel decides to just remain in his rumpled suit; he can always change when they reach his apartment. He bypasses the hall to the lockers, and they head for the doors.

"So." Dean bumps their arms together. "You like me, huh?"

Castiel groans, bringing one hand up to cover his face. "Shut up."

"Your friend seems to think you like me." Dean walks ahead and holds the door open for him.

As he steps through, Castiel shakes his head at Dean. "You are not amusing."

"What?" Dean grins, wide and innocent. "I'm adorable."

They're in Dean's car and out on the road just a few minutes later, but Dean drives past the turn that would take them to Castiel's apartment, and the Roadhouse is in the opposite direction.

"Where are we going?"

"I told you." Dean flashes a quick smile at him. "It's a surprise."

He steers the car into a small parking lot, carefully maneuvering its large frame perfectly between cracked and peeling yellow lines. Dean takes care locking up his car.

"Wish I had a garage to park her in," he laments, and starts toward a square, brown building opposite them, waiting for Castiel to catch up.

"Where are we?" Castiel asks, surveying the lot and the surrounding area. This doesn't look like the best neighborhood to be visiting.

In lieu of answering, Dean flicks his eyebrows up in a gesture Castiel recognizes as _'I'm about to impress you.'_ He doesn't even have time to protest when Dean grabs his hand and hurries him into the building. The door sticks as Dean tries to open it, and then doesn't close all the way behind them. They go up three flights of stairs, fluorescent lights flickering overhead, and down a dim hallway, where Dean stops in front of a door marked 3F.

Dean's watching him closely, and he looks nervous again. Castiel is starting to wonder if Dean has dragged them into some sort of opium den (or something more plausible — he doesn't know about these things) when Dean produces a key, jams it into the lock, struggles with it, swears under his breath, and finally pushes the door open with a clumsy flourish.

Stepping through the door, Dean disappears in the darkness. Castiel can hear rustling noises, and then a light flares on, illuminating Dean in the middle of a small, brown, ugly little room. He's standing with his arms outstretched to either side of his body, spins in a small circle, and looks back to Castiel expectantly.

"Well? What do you think? Not too shabby for my first place, right?"

Castiel stands there, just outside the door, and stares.

"Okay, okay, I know it's kind of a hole, but it's _my_ hole." Dean stops, brow wrinkling. "Yeah, that sounded bad even in my head. But anyway, c'mon!" He rushes forward, grabs the sleeve of Castiel's shirt and tugs. "Get in here, man. And shut the door; I think some of the neighbors are… kinda weird."

Stumbling into the room and closing the door securely behind him, Castiel takes a look around. To one side is… what one might call a kitchenette, if one were being very generous. There's a sink with a tiny window above it, about two feet of counter space, and a short, rounded, avocado-colored refrigerator from the 1970's. In front of this is a tiny portion of tiled floor (yellow, with green flecks) on which sits a small, square metal table and two mismatched metal chairs.

Noticing him looking at the chairs, Dean jumps in, saying, "Those even came with the place. Perfect, right? Chair for you, chair for me! I call the blue one." The seats are padded with vinyl covering — one is blue, the other is orange.

"Oh, and over here!" Dean claps him on the shoulders, whirling him around to face the other side of the… apartment. _Dean's apartment._ "Bobby gave me this chair," Dean says, leaving Castiel to walk over to a brown leather armchair and plop down. "I fucking love this chair, man. But this is the best part!" He leaps up out of his seat, over to the far wall and a large cabinet or wardrobe. But instead of opening the doors, Dean reaches to the top and lifts a latch, and the whole false front panel lowers to the floor.

A Murphy bed. Castiel hasn't seen one of those… ever. Outside of television.

"How fucking cool is that?" Dean says, clearly excited. "It reminds me of those old, like, private eye type movies." He throws himself onto the bed. "And look. I bought new sheets and pillows and everything." He pats the spot next to him, waggling his eyebrows.

"I…" Castiel is still trying to keep up. His eyes pass over Dean on the bed, the walls, and come to stop on a skinny, brown door to his left.

"That's the bathroom," Dean says, following his gaze. "It's… it's shitty, but hey, at least I don't have to share." The bed creaks behind Castiel, and then Dean is standing in front of him again. "Are you going to say anything?"

"When did you do all this? I thought you went out of town." He doesn't mean it to sound accusatory, but it comes out that way.

"I was. I did. I went to see Bobby… the chair," Dean says, gesturing to the leather armchair. "He's an old family friend. Helped my dad out a few times. I've known him since I was a kid. I just had to get some stuff. I mean I helped him out, in his garage, and I picked some old things up while I was there."

There are cardboard boxes stacked up against one wall that Castiel hadn't noticed before. And Dean's duffel bag with clothes spilling out the top.

"You… got your own apartment," Castiel says.

"Uh, yeah." Dean scratches the back of his neck. "I, um, I actually got back yesterday, but I wanted to get all this taken care of, plus you were working, so I didn't want to bother you 'til it was all done. I know this place isn't great, it's not as nice as yours, obviously, but I can afford it easily, and the guy totally wasn't picky about ref—"

Kissing Dean is usually the best way to shut him up. "It's perfect," Castiel mumbles against Dean's lips.

* * *

Mostly they spend their nights together at Castiel's apartment. Dean keeps saying it's because his place is _so much nicer_ , but there's something about Dean's tiny room that feels so much more homey. The walls are dull and the carpet is hideous and there's only one small window that lets in a scant amount of outside light, but the whole place smells like Dean — a strange combination of engine grease, oil, leather, and oranges.

And despite Castiel's misgivings, Dean's bed is quite comfortable. That may or may not have something to do with the arms currently holding him, or the legs entwined with his, or the soft hot mouth on the back of his neck.

Or the deep husky voice that sighs out a tremulous, "Oh, baby," into his sweat-soaked hair. The words, as much as the tickling breath over his skin, sends shivers throughout Castiel's body and he feels himself impossibly hardening again. Dean must take notice, for he smoothes his large hand over Castiel's hip, fingers dancing just shy of his cock.

"'Baby'?" Dean asks with an amused huff of laughter. "That does it for you, huh?"

Castiel's body warms for a different reason, face quickly becoming red. Dean must notice this, also, because he shifts up onto his elbow to lean over and make eye contact.

"No, it's good," Dean whispers, kissing his cheek. "I like that."

Castiel bites his smile, turning his face deep into the pillow to hide it away from Dean's eyes. He can feel Dean's answering grin pressed into the side of his neck.

"Hey," Dean says, mouthing insistently along Castiel's jaw, lightly scraping teeth over stubble. "C'mon, baby, look at me."

He whirls around so fast, he has Dean pinned to the mattress before they can tumble off. It's a near thing, but Dean's hands, those unbearably strong hands of his, latch onto Castiel's hips to help balance him. He squeezes his thighs into Dean's sides, hands planted in the middle of Dean's firm chest.

It's like standing on a precipice, the earth dropping away before him, and he's not being pushed this time. No, he's going to jump, and take flight on wings he thought were broken beyond repair long ago.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

So, Dean's never dated a guy before. If he's being totally honest, he's never really _dated_ at all. He had a girlfriend in high school because that's what he was supposed to do in high school. Don't get him wrong; Cassie was awesome and they were together through most of junior and senior year. Off and on. Mostly on. They fought a lot, and made up a lot, and back then Dean probably would've said that he loved her. Well… no, he wouldn't have actually _said_ it, but he's pretty sure he'd felt it. That indescribable… something. He'd never felt anything quite like it before she came along. Or since. Until… well. 

But with Cassie? Yeah, back then he could've pictured himself with her forever. Right up until she dumped him, anyway. The final dump. The _'I'm leaving for college and you're just going to hang around this stupid town for the rest of your life and it would be better for both of us if we just say goodbye now'_ dump.

Not that he believes Cassie had been wrong, looking back on it now. He couldn't have given her the life she wanted, and they'd have spent at least fifty percent of the time fighting with each other anyway. He'd had no aspirations for his future (her dumping him is what put the idea of enlisting in his head), and yeah maybe he'd gone a little wild after high school, banging anything that looked at him twice. The point is he's never really gone out on dates before. 

And he sure as shit has never been stood up.

Ordering another beer, he decides to give Cas twenty more minutes before he splits. Stupid ass was supposed to meet him here _over two hours ago_. The first hour, Dean figured he was just caught up at the hospital. It happens. It happens a lot, to be honest, but he understands that. Except when that does happen, Cas always calls or texts to let him know. Sometimes he gets Nancy to call if he can't, but one way or another Dean isn't left in the dark.

So that first hour waiting hadn't been so bad. At the Roadhouse Dean is always among friends, or at least people he knows well enough to pass the time. After the second hour, however, and not a single message, or an answer to any of his texts, Dean started getting pissed off.

Andy's working tonight (he took over for Jamie a couple months ago after she left for Boston) and he finally coaxes Dean to come sit at the bar. He'd been reluctant to move, with the place filling up fast Dean hadn't wanted to lose their booth. Now it doesn't look like Cas is going to show, so… it doesn't matter.

"He call yet?" Andy asks while he slices limes.

Dean shakes his head. "Nope."

"Oh. Well. I'm sure it's nothing. I mean, I'm sure he's fine. If anything happened we'd have seen it, right?" He gestures over his shoulder at the TV behind the bar.

"What?" Confused for a moment, Dean blinks back and forth between Andy and the television (the sound is off but this set is always tuned to the local news station). Then it dawns and a sinking pit opens in Dean's stomach. That… Jesus Christ, that thought never even occurred to him.

"Hm?" Andy looks up from his limes. "No! No, I'm saying he's fine, man. Don't—"

But Dean's already standing up and pulling his jacket on, ignoring Andy calling out behind him. He drives straight to the hospital first. Andy's right. Cas is a surgeon, sometimes those things last for hours. He's probably elbow-deep in someone's guts and didn't have time to call Dean. Or ask anyone else to. But when Dean gets there, Nancy informs him that Dr. Miles left hours ago.

He tries Cas's phone again, but there's still no answer. If anything happened to him, he'd have just been brought back here, and surely Nancy would know about it. Getting back in his car, Dean forces himself to take deep breaths before he turns the ignition. He follows the route Cas would have taken to the Roadhouse. _Goddammit!_ Dean should've just gone to pick him up. He was helping Ellen unload some crates, but she'd have let him go early if he'd asked. It was Cas's suggestion to meet up anyway. _'I'm perfectly capable of walking, Dean. I've been getting around just fine my whole life.'_

Except, where the fuck is he if he's so fucking capable? Dean doesn't see anybody out walking right now. He also doesn't see any bodies lying on the ground, or any signs that there were any people or bodies.

He's dialing Cas's phone repeatedly as he drives to his apartment. Son of a bitch still isn't answering, it's just going straight to voicemail. Dean parks his car in a hurry outside Cas's building, but he restrains himself from sprinting to the door. When he gets there, though, he can't help but pound his fist against it and lay on the bell.

After several minutes, when Dean's hand is starting to sting, the door finally opens and Cas is standing there staring at him, bleary-eyed and rumpled, still dressed in his suit with his tie askew and coming undone. The sight reminds Dean of the first time they bumped into each other at the Roadhouse.

"Well, you're not lyin' dead in a ditch somewhere," Dean growls, crossing his arms in front of him. "So, I guess you just forgot about me." He means it to come out more flippantly, but the hurt shows through.

"Oh." And there Cas seems to crumple in on himself. "We had a date."

Dean tries to hang onto the anger at being forgotten, but it's difficult when Cas is standing there looking so _mournful_. "No offense, man, but you look like shit."

"I… yes." Cas nods slowly. Dean waits for him to say more, or at least invite him in, but Cas continues to stand there, watching him.

"What the hell happened?" he asks, throwing his hands up in exasperation. Cas looks down at their feet without answering. "Bad day at the office, I'm guessing?" Cas nods again, a tiny movement, not raising his eyes. Dean sighs. "Come on."

He ushers Cas back into the apartment, shutting the door securely, and starts to take off his boots. Cas is standing in the middle of the room looking like a giant pile of wrinkled laundry and none of the lights have been turned on.

"I don't know about you," Dean says, moving around him and switching on the tall floor lamp by the sofa, "but I'm fucking starving. Did you eat?"

"No," Cas mumbles. "I don't want anything."

Dean studies him for a minute, unsure how to continue. He's never seen Cas look this pathetic before. Not even that first night they spent at the Roadhouse. He clearly doesn't want to talk about whatever happened. Dean could probably make a few guesses, but he can't see the point; him knowing won't really make Cas feel better. So, he does what he used to do with his dad.

"Well, I do. Someone was supposed to meet me for dinner, and I haven't eaten since this morning." Before Cas has a chance to let that sink in and start to feel guilty or whatever, Dean gently grips him by the elbow and leads him over to the ridiculous tapestry thing separating the bedroom. "You're kind of a fucking mess, though, so how 'bout you go shower, and I'll fix us something."

Cas looks back at him over his shoulder and says his name so quietly. Dean just gives him a little push toward the bathroom.

"Go. You smell like hospital."

Cas disappears into the gloom behind the curtain. Dean rubs his forehead, and mutters, "Well shit."

* * *

In the shower, Castiel stands under the hot spray so long he loses track of time. At one point he hears the door to his apartment open and close and assumes that Dean has left. He washes methodically, rinses off, but has no desire to leave the shower. He hears the door open again, and worries that Dean didn't lock it when he left. It doesn't quite spur him into action, but he shuts the water off and dries himself with a big towel.

Opening the bathroom door, a billow of steam follows him into his bedroom. He peaks around the tapestry, but can't see anyone from this angle. He can _hear_ someone, though, moving around in his kitchen, and the soft voice of a man singing. 

_"And I don't own the clothes I'm wearing, and the road goes on forever."_

It's a song Castiel has heard once or twice over the last few months, but he can't think of the name. It's a wonder he recognizes it considering how off-key Dean sings.

_"And I've got one more silver dollar. But I'm not gonna let 'em catch me, no! Not gonna let 'em catch the midnight rider."_

Dried and dressed and feeling marginally improved, Castiel goes to find Dean. He's at the stove, and the smell of garlic and onions is thick in the air. "You're cooking."

Dean jumps, cut off mid-song. "Jesus, you're quiet. Lookin' much better, though. And yeah — meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy. And, uh, green beans, 'cuz I guess you should eat something green." He shrugs and goes back to stirring whatever's in the pan. "Don't be too impressed, though. Meatloaf's easy, and the gravy is from a can. So are the beans."

"It smells good."

"That's the garlic. You should put garlic in everything; it's good for you." Castiel chuckles softly, and Dean raises an eyebrow at him. "Don't knock it, me 'n' Sammy grew up on this stuff. I probably made this at least twice a month."

"You cooked dinners for your brother?" Castiel asks carefully. Dean often mentions his beloved little brother, but he doesn't really talk about him outside of cute anecdotes.

Dean shrugs. "Yeah, usually." And that's the end of that. "Also, dude, you gotta start keeping more food in your house. I had to run to that grocery store around the block, and they were getting ready to close. Okay, these are good to go," he says, turning off the burner and removing the pan from heat.

Castiel stands back as Dean moves around his kitchen with familiar ease. Castiel can cook well enough for himself, the basics, but he's fairly sure that Dean has used this kitchen more in the last few month than Castiel has in the last three years. Dean sets everything he needs out on the countertop next to the stove. He rips open a package and plops the contents into a big mixing bowl.

"You gonna help, or just stand there and watch?"

Moving over to the sink, Castiel washes his hands thoroughly and shakes them dry. "What do you need me to do?"

Dean teaches him how to make meatloaf (it involves far more ingredients than he would've thought) and the Winchester secret to The Most Perfect Mashed Potatoes In The World. Dean says this is one of the few things he can make well that doesn't come from a can or a box. For after dinner, Dean also bought an apple pie that only needs to be warmed in the oven. Castiel's apartment has never smelled so good, and everything tastes amazing.

"This pie's pretty good," Dean says, with his mouth full (and Castiel doesn't chastise him even though he thinks it's gross and annoying). "But it's not the best I've ever had."

"I like the chocolate pie they serve in our cafeteria."

"Hospital food?" Dean's face scrunches up in disgust.

"Our hospital's food is very good. Nutritionally and taste-wise."

He shrugs in an 'if you say so' manner (Castiel is getting good at reading Dean's body language). "But chocolate pie isn't really _pie_. It's just…" Dean waves his fork in the air. "Pudding trying to act fancy."

At that Castiel laughs, a small soft sound that barely escapes his throat. Dean has strong opinions — mainly about food, music, and his car, in that order. He also has a way of making Castiel forget everything else but them, together, in this moment.

They curl up on his squashy blue sofa and watch television late into the night. He volunteers to wash up the dishes, but Dean insists they just leave it until the morning. He does wrap up the leftovers and put them in the fridge, though.

Castiel falls asleep mostly lying on top of Dean on the sofa, with Dean's arms securely wrapped around him.

* * *

Compared to Cas, anybody would be considered a light sleeper. Seriously, when Cas is out, he's _out_. Dean, however, has always been alert. Even when completely asleep. Maybe it's from his early years of listening out for Sammy's cries in the middle of the night. (It's not like Dad was never there, and they had babysitters when he wasn't, but it was usually Dean who went to make sure Sam had his blankets tucked around him, and his stuffed giraffe so he could chew on its long neck.) Or maybe from his later years of sitting up and waiting for Dad to stumble in the door well after he and Sam were supposed to be asleep — the telltale heavy thud of his feet and muttered curses, letting Dean know that Dad was drunk but still alive.

In any case, Dean has a good sense for what is a normal, nighttime, building-settling type noise, and what is… not. The sound of the door to Cas's apartment creaking slowly open is definitely the latter. That's what wakes him, but it's the hushed tip-toeing of bare feet on wood floor that catapults Dean into full awareness. The blankets pool around his hips as he sits up. Cas is still knocked out next to him, in pretty much the exact position Dean had dropped him in when he'd practically carried him to bed.

He debates for a second whether he should wake Cas or not. If it's a burglar, Cas might be safer staying in here — but who takes their shoes off before they rob someone? A few pokes to Cas's shoulder elicits zero response, anyway, and the footsteps are making their way across the floor more quickly now. Sliding out from beneath the covers, Dean creeps over to the tapestry to take a peek. His fingers itch for the .45 his dad used to keep in the top dresser drawer, and goddamn he wishes Cas's stupid place had actual walls and doors.

There's definitely a person in there; Dean can make out the shadow of a man moving what he probably thinks is stealthily into the kitchen. The figure is tall, but not bulky. Dean thinks he can take him. Grabbing the heaviest thing to hand — a funky-ass bronze statue on Cas's dresser — he slinks around the tapestry and into the kitchen, reaches along the wall and gropes for the light switch.

The overhead light reveals a lean, blond man poking his head into the freezer.

"Who the fuck are you?" Dean barks.

The man turns slowly to fix his eyes on Dean. "You're not Cassie."

Thrown, Dean briefly lowers his weapon. It's so weird; he was just thinking about Cassie earlier today… and then it clicks that this guy means Cas. Raising the statue again (which he now sees is some sort of freaky mermaid-thing), Dean says, "I asked who the fuck you are, and also what the fuck are you doing here?"

A thought pops into Dean's head that he can't shake, running on a loop: _god please don't be an ex-boyfriend, god please don't be an ex-boyfriend, god please don't be an ex-boyfriend._ Cas has never mentioned any exes, but it's not beyond the realm of possibility.

"You must be _Dean_ ," the guy says, with a dangerously gleeful expression on his face. "I had hoped we'd meet under better circumstances. Or not at all; Cassie's so secretive, you know."

Doing a quick mental assessment — accent, expensive threads — Dean thinks he's got it figured out. "Gabriel I've seen. From afar, but—" He holds his hand up, chest-height. "Little guy. So that would make you… Balthazar, right?"

"Gold star."

Dean lets his hands fall to his sides, but still clutching that statue in one fist. "You make it a habit of breaking into your friends' homes and raiding the fridge?"

"I was just looking for some ice; Cassie never has food." He takes in the mess of dishes left from dinner and raises his eyebrows. "Although, perhaps that's changed now you're here. Drink?" Balthazar clinks two ice cubes into a tumbler, then drowns them in Scotch (from a bottle Dean has seen on the shelf in Cas's living room). He looks way too comfortable lounging against the counter, and Dean feels very naked standing in Cas's cold kitchen in just his boxers.

"You get lost? You live upstairs, right?"

"I've come to check on my friend," Balthazar says, facing him straight on now, cradling his drink in one hand. "And I didn't break in. I've got a key." Which he dangles from the other hand.

Dean ignores the obvious bait. "He's asleep. People tend to do that at two in the morning."

"I just got off," Balthazar retorts, glass pausing at his lips. He smirks. "I'd wager you just did, as well." He throws his drink back and sets the glass delicately in the sink. Dean's fists clench.

"You came. You checked. He's fine, so—"

"Is he? Really, though, how was he? He ate?" Balthazar asks, gesturing to the evidence of their meal. His tone has changed to one of obvious concern.

Disarmed, Dean says slowly, "Yeah, he ate. Was quieter than usual, but he seemed alright. What—" he starts to ask, but bites his lip to stop himself.

Balthazar raises both eyebrows. "He didn't…? No, of course he didn't," he mutters. "You may have noticed Cassie's not the biggest talker. He'll keep everything to himself if you let him."

"Can't really blame him for that," Dean says, because he can't without feeling like a hypocrite, even as it drives him crazy.

"No." Balthazar sighs. "I suppose he's been conditioned that way."

"You mean in the army?"

"The army. Since birth. I'd blame it on those awful brothers of his."

_Brothers?_

The thing is, Cas never talks about his family, and Dean has accepted that. He knows that Cas grew up in the army life, but he never mentioned specifics and Dean had sort of assumed… Well, he thought it was just his parents, and that they were dead, and who could blame Cas if talking about that was too painful? Dean could barely get the words out about his own parents. He's never told Cas the whole story about Dad, how they watched him waste away for months. How he sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night and swears he can smell smoke.

Or Sam. How Dean drove him away and hasn't seen him since. How Sam won't even return his calls. It's been weeks since he left Sammy drunken voicemails, and there's been nothing. Not a peep.

"Gabriel knows them better, obviously," Balthazar continues, ignoring or not noticing Dean's mental freeze. "But after the way they treated Cas… ah." He flaps his hand in a dismissive manner. Pursing his lips, Balthazar gives the barest hint of a nod, before his entire demeanor reverts back to a few moments ago. "Well, all right then. Time I head up. No need to tell Cassie I was here." He pushes off the counter, taking the still mostly full bottle with him and waving it in Dean's face. "He'll know."

He makes his way quickly and quietly across the apartment, replaces the bottle on its shelf, slips his shoes on, and disappears out the door, tossing a "Sweet dreams!" over his shoulder.

After a second, blinking stupidly, Dean checks to make sure the door is locked, and goes back to bed. He slides in under the covers next to Cas, who's still sleeping like a rock, and finds himself just staring down at that messy dark head.

The next day, Dean waits until after they've rolled around in bed, had a shower, and are sitting down to lunch (leftover meatloaf sandwiches — a Winchester lunchbox staple) before he very casually says, "Your friend from upstairs stopped by last night."

Cas's eyes go wide and round. "W-what were—how did—if he—" he stutters, stops, and draws himself up with a deep breath. "What did he say?"

"He just wanted to see if you were feeling better, after your crap day," Dean says as casually as he can muster. "He also drank some of your booze."

"Ah." Cas's eyes go to the shelf behind the sofa. "He does that. I apologize if he startled you. You should've woken me."

At that Dean smiles. "Yeah right. You were like a log. I haven't seen anyone sleep that heavy since… my brother. A hurricane could've blown through his room and he wouldn't budge."

Cas blushes, as if sleeping peacefully is something to be embarrassed about. Makes no mention of brothers, though.

"You might wanna call him, your friend; he seemed worried," Dean says, and starts clearing up the dishes. With his back to Cas he adds, "And maybe ask him to knock first? I mean, even if he has a key…" He tries to peek at Cas out of the corner of his eye. He's busy wiping down the table.

"He's supposed to use that for emergencies. I have a key to his place, too, which has come in handy." Cas moves in beside Dean to rinse the dishrag out under the faucet. "He tends to forget to turn things off before he leaves. The stereo, the bath, the stove. I'm sure I've prevented this building from simultaneously burning down and being flooded on more than one occasion."

"Oh. Yeah, that's… practical." It is, and Dean's not jealous. It makes perfect, reasonable sense. He starts to fill up the sink, squirting liquid soap over the dishes.

"You are working tonight?" Cas asks, leaning close to him.

"Yeah. Going in at five."

"Then perhaps," Cas says, placing his hand over Dean's and shutting off the water, "this can wait until later?"

He gets soapsuds all over Cas's face and hair and clothes, but he doesn't seem to mind.

* * *

The death of Aaron Birch gets a brief mention in the local paper — 'a tragic accident' they call it. Dean doesn't say a word, but he watches Cas smooth out the paper and read it thoroughly before setting it primly in the recycle bin. Dean wants to ask. He wants to say 'you did everything you could' and 'it's not your fault' but he's not brave enough to even try.

Instead, somehow, he finds himself talking about the time Dad planned to take him and Sammy camping, but a huge storm blew in the day they were set to leave, so Dad took them up to the store and rolled sleeping bags out in front of one of the display tents, and made s'mores, and Sammy smeared chocolate all over his face while Dean told ghost stories.

It gets a few chuckles out of Cas, and he says, "I've never been camping. Not for fun." Dean notices the sadness lurking behind his eyes for the first time. He decides to leave it alone then.

* * *

Ellen had given him this tall chest of drawers for his new place, along with an old lamp and a low wooden table on which the lamp sits next to his leather armchair. He'd tried to pay her, but she told him it was just junk she should throw out anyway. Wiggling the top drawer does nothing; Dean jams his shoulder against it but it won't budge. If he pulls it all the way out he'll never get it back in, so he just leaves it hanging there.

All of his clothes fit in the top three drawers, and the bottom two hold the contents of those boxes he brought back from Dad's lock-up — photos mostly, and Dad's medals, a few other things that belonged to Mom. Dean doesn't own much else, and the rest of his shoebox apartment is clear of clutter, but for a small pile of laundry next to the bed.

And his damn shirt's not in that, either. He already looked. Twice.

Digging his phone out of his jeans pocket, Dean checks the time and swears. He's going to be late. "C'mon, c'mon, answer," he mutters, growing more frustrated with each ring.

 _"What?"_ Cas's voice sounds thick and heavy.

"Were you sleeping?"

"Very nearly," Cas rumbles. "I just got home. What is the problem?"

"Did I leave my shirt there? The dark green button-down with the good collar?" Deans asks, and waits impatiently through a long silence. "You still there?"

"That is why you called me?"

"Uh, yeah. I can't find it anywhere."

"Perhaps you should keep better track of your things." He's never heard Cas sound quite this grouchy before.

"Could you take a look? I wanted to wear that to dinner tomorrow." It's the nicest shirt he owns, and they're having Thanksgiving dinner with their assorted friends, and Dean will be damned if he's the one who shows up looking like a fucking slob in ripped jeans and grease-stained shirt. It's got nothing to do with the fact that he'll basically be meeting all of Cas's fancy doctor friends. Or that he's been running into Balthazar practically every time he's over Cas's place. The smarmy bastard just keeps popping up in his tight, tailored pants and form-fitting V-neck sweaters, perfectly styled hair, fucking Italian loafers…

Maybe Dean should go buy some new clothes?

"Aren't you going to be late for work?" Cas grumbles in his ear.

"Yeah, I'm on my way now," Dean says, and he really does need to get going. He grabs his jacket and keys and heads out the door. "So is it there?"

"I don't know, Dean. You can look for it tomorrow."

"But then I won't have to time to wash it and—"

"I am _sleeping_ now, Dean."

"Okay. Jesus. Sorry I bothered you. These are your fucking friends. If you don't care that I'll look like a goddamn grease-monkey, why should I?" He jiggles the door knob to make sure it's locked, listening to silence on the other end of the phone. "Hello? Cas?" He pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at it. Cas fucking hung up on him.

"Hey there," a smoky female voice says. "Your sexy doctor stopping by later?"

"Doubt it. Think I pissed him off." Dean shoves the phone in his pocket and shrugs on his jacket. "Hey, Pamela."

"You headin' out?"

"Is this you bummin' a ride?"

"If you're going that way." She smiles slyly, slinking away from the wall to fall in step with him out to his car.

Pamela lives two doors down in 3D. Her place is at least twice the size of Dean's — he's not sure how she swung that (pretty sure he doesn't want to know, either). She's cool. And hot. A few months ago Dean would've been all over that — she's so his type. Now, though… Hell, she keeps teasing him about a threesome with Cas and Dean doesn't even care to find out if she's serious.

He's totally losing it.

Pam breaks for the pool tables in the back as soon as they get here, and Dean loses track of her after that. He takes pity on whatever poor bastards challenge her — she'll eat them alive. Ellen's got him behind the bar tonight, because it's so busy with all the college students and people home for the holiday weekend. Dean keeps himself too occupied to wonder about what Sam's up to — if the little shit won't call him, then… fine. No skin off his ass.

Jo's sitting at the bar, but she isn’t working tonight. She's got open textbooks surrounding her, scribbling in a notebook.

"Aren't you on break like everyone else?" Dean asks, setting a glass of water down beside her. "You're gonna go blind trying to read that shit in here."

"Um, unlike you, I have things in my life that are actually important," she says without looking up. "I'm not spending the rest of my life in this bar. Don't you dare tell my mother I said that." Now she focuses her stern face on him. Dean raises his hands, palms out.

"What're you studying anyway?" he asks.

"Intro to Criminology, Criminal Justice," she says, raising her textbooks so Dean can glimpse the covers.

"You gonna be a cop?"

"Haven't decided yet. But I'm going to make sure sons of bitches like the ones who shot my father don't get off scot-free ever again." She forces eye contact, and he's never seen Jo look so serious before. It's not a thing she talks about much.

Ash is actually the one who told Dean the story: 'bout ten years ago two men walked into the Roadhouse and pulled a gun on Jo's dad, Bill. They emptied the cash register and the safe, took a few bottles of the good stuff just because they could. Bill cooperated, but when one of them made a move toward the back, the door to the stairs that led up to the apartment above, the one where his wife and daughter were sleeping, Bill stepped in front of him.

Ellen had heard the commotion and called the cops right away. She didn't go downstairs until after she heard the gunshots. She'd locked Jo in a closet to keep her safe. The sirens scared the robbers off and, as far as Dean knows, they were never caught.

"That's a noble goal," Dean says solemnly. "If you're doing it because it's what you want."

"Why else would I?"

He shrugs. Jo isn't him, and her family isn't his family. If Dad had found someone to blame for Mom's death, Dean's pretty sure his life would've been a whole lot different.

"What did you want to do?" Jo asks him. "I mean, this wasn't your dream job, was it?"

Caught off guard, Dean stalls, wiping down the wood surface in front him. Then he smirks at her. "Why the hell not? Free drinks—"

"They're not actually free," she points out.

Dean ignores that, continuing, "Good people, good food. I get to bust a few heads from time to time." He tosses the bar rag over his shoulder, grinning. "I'm full-on Swayze here."

Jo shakes her head at him, but she's laughing. Ellen appears beside her. "Hey, _Dalton_ , you wanna run back there and grab a couple more cases?"

"Sure thing, boss," Dean says, moving away from the bar and into the back past the kitchen. He chuckles to himself as he hears Ellen lecturing Jo about appropriate study environments. He's sweating bullets by the time he's hauled the last case out — Ash is the one supposed to be doing this, really. Dean hasn’t seen him for the last twenty or so minutes, to be honest.

The door to Dean's old digs is way at the back beyond the storage rooms (technically it _was_ a storage room before Bill turned it into an office) and he wonders if maybe Ash is back there. Ash was the first one to take up residence in that room, though he moved out several years ago — said he needed more space for his equipment (Dean didn't ask what that meant).

He pushes the door open, mouth open to holler, and—

"Whoa! Sorry." Dean pulls the door shut. "Was not expecting that." Seems Ash has reclaimed the room for a bit. And who knew Pamela had a tattoo on her ass? He grins to himself at that. Before a thought occurs to him.

"I hope he wasn't doing that while I was livin' in there."

* * *

Castiel wakes as he'd slept — fitfully and tangled in sheets. It's nearing midnight according to the glow from his bedside clock. He rubs the grittiness out of his eyes, rolls over, and hugs Dean's pillow to his chest. Strictly speaking, it is his own pillow, but that has quickly become Dean's side of the bed and his scent lingers. Castiel inhales deeply.

Normally, he has no problem sleeping — falling asleep, staying asleep, he can do it anywhere, anytime. But there's been something itching under his skin all day, or all week and maybe longer if he's being honest. Castiel's not one for self-reflection; he's always been a little afraid to look too deeply inside himself. There's a very good chance he won't like what he finds there. Or at least, he won't want to face what he finds there.

Above, he hears the soft creaking of a door, someone moving around, and then thumping bass of Balthazar's stereo. Castiel thinks of calling up there and telling him to _keep it down, people are trying to sleep_ , but he's done sleeping.

Then he has an idea.

Balthazar answers the door barefoot, but still dressed, with a drink in hand. Castiel frowns at it. "How much of that have you had so far?"

"A few sips," Balthazar answers, taking another.

"Well, stop it. I need your key."

"What key? Your key? Have you locked yourself out? What's that?" he asks, pointing to the bundle under Castiel's arm.

"Nothing. And no. I just need your key. I will get another made at a later date, but there isn't time now. Also, I need you to drive me somewhere."

He directs Balthazar to the Roadhouse, ignoring the moaning and running commentary. Castiel thanks him when they arrive, but of course Balthazar follows him inside, where they run into Dean's friend with the unfortunate hairstyle.

"What's up, Doc?" Ash says, but doesn't give Castiel a chance to reply. "Dean," he bellows across the still crowded bar, "your boyfriend's here!"

Shrinking down deep into his coat, Castiel tries to make himself as invisible as possible while navigating toward Dean behind the bar. He feels Balthazar at his back the entire way. When he reaches him, the smile on Dean's face — wide, open, bright — nearly banishes his paranoia completely.

"Hey, baby, I thought you were sleeping," Dean says, leaning far across the bar to kiss the side of Castiel's burning face. He forces himself to remain still. Nobody had even looked at him, and yet Castiel still expects them to every time.

"I slept for the last six and a half hours," Castiel says. "And I found your shirt. It's clean. I must have washed it with my things." He holds it out, neatly folded, over the bar to Dean.

Dean blinks at him. "Uh, thanks." He wipes his hands on his jeans and takes the shirt, then looks as though he doesn't know what to do with it. "You didn't have to come all the way down here just for that."

"You seemed very insistent that you needed it."

"Yeah, well." Dean's mouth lifts in that half-smile of his (the one Castiel thinks of as 'bashful') and tucks the shirt under his arm. "I could've picked it up later."

"I didn't… think you'd be coming over tonight," Castiel says softly.

"Well, no. I thought you'd be sleeping." 

"I—yes. Also, I have this for you." Castiel reaches into his pocket for his key, the one he'd taken off his own key ring, and thrusts it at Dean. "For if you need to get into the apartment. When I'm not there. Or sleeping. Or just… b-because."

Dean stares at the key in Castiel's outstretched hand. Then he stares into Castiel's eyes. His gaze flickers over Castiel's shoulder and falters. He nods a greeting. "Hey."

"Evening," Balthazar returns (Castiel had forgotten he was there). He leans in close to Castiel's ear. "Am I still needed here, or…"

"Yes. I need you to drive me back. I don't have any surgeries scheduled tomorrow, but I'm on call during the morning," he says to Dean. "Holidays usually mean accidents." He reaches across the bar to grab Dean's hand and firmly place the key in his palm. "Please use this, Dean."

He doesn't give Dean a chance to respond, just nods his farewell and turns for the exit with Balthazar in tow.

Once they've made it out the door into the refreshingly cool air, Balthazar says, "That was _very_ entertaining."

"Shut up," Castiel replies, but his insides are quivering.

* * *

The key burns a hole in Dean's pocket all night long. He slips it onto his key ring, right between the ones for the Impala and his own apartment. He doesn't go to Cas's place after work, though; he'll see him tomorrow.

* * *

Dinner is way less formal than Dean was expecting. It's kind of an open buffet free-for-all held at Gabriel's house. Apparently he likes to cook, and _Jesus Christ_ can he cook. Dean has stuffed his face with a lot of different foods in a lot of different places, but right here… this is heaven. 

"So, this is _Dean_."

Maybe not quite heaven.

Gabriel eyes him up and down. He might be intimidating if he wasn't half a foot shorter than Dean. The apron and the whisk aren't helping him, either. However, Dean would prefer it if at least one of Cas's friends actually liked him, so he's determined to be on his best behavior. He finishes chewing and swallowing his food before he says, "Hey."

"You know this is Dean, Gabriel," Cas says next to him. "You've seen him before several times."

"He has?" Dean asks. That's news to him.

Gabriel just shrugs. He drops the whisk into a big mixing bowl, picks it up along with a spoon and holds it out to Dean. "Try this. Not like your opinion matters, but… too salty?"

Valiantly ignoring that, Dean dips the spoon in the chunky, yellowish gunk in the bowl and takes the tiniest little taste. "Oh my god," he moans.

Gabriel's kind of a douche, but this definitely makes up for it. Dean doesn't know what that gunk is, but he wants more.

"No double-dipping, muttonhead." He takes the spoon from Dean and returns the bowl to the countertop. "I'll take that as a negative vote on the 'too salty' question. You can go back to your turkey." The gunk turns out to be some kind of custard with cinnamon and honey and pineapple chunks and cashews. Dean eats three little cupfuls as soon as Gabe serves it.

He briefly wonders if he should save room for Ellen's pie before he gets seconds on everything else. The Roadhouse is closed for the day, but Ellen's having her own get-together for friends, and the plan is to head there after this. Ellen's been baking all week, and Dean's been dying to try some of it (he might've got smacked upside the head once or twice trying to sneak a few tastes at work).

If they left here early, he doubts anyone would notice. People have been coming and going as they please all day. Or, as they're able, Dean supposes, considering almost everyone is from the hospital and has to go in for work at some point. (Cas got called in mid-morning, but he was all ready by three when Dean picked him up.)

But these are Cas's friends. He and Cas spend a lot of time at the Roadhouse and, even if they don't always hang out with the people there, they do see and speak with them on a fairly regular basis. Dean's never hung out with Cas's friends before. Hell, he's pretty much just met most of them for the first time today. He talks with Nancy briefly before she has to leave; he likes Nancy. The rest of them are gathered around Gabriel's undeniably awesome new plasma TV.

Football's never really been Dean's game, so he takes himself off to one corner of Gabriel's massive house (and, yeah, doctors and their mansions, Dean knew it) to keep out of the way. Not because he's shy or anything — Dean doesn't do shy. But everyone here knows everyone else. Except him. He's the outsider. Again. Sometimes he feels like he's spent his whole life on the outside looking in.

Cas sticks out, too, though. It's funny. Dean figured he'd blend in here, be more in his element, but Cas stands out anywhere. It doesn't appear to bother him; he talks with everyone, and moves around Gabriel's house as easily as his own.

Dean notices that Gabriel calls him Cas, too, but sort of in a... Not mocking, exactly, more like a teasing tone. It reminds Dean of the way he teases Sam. Used to tease Sam.

He's checked his phone probably thirty times today, and he's still got squat from his brother. Not even a 'Happy T-day!' Not that he got one last year, either (which, if he remembers correctly, he'd spent drunk outside the recently repossessed _Winchester & Sons_ until the local law enforcement kindly put him up for the night). Kid's gotta be on school break, like Jo and all the other college students. He's probably got new swanky friends to spend the holiday with.

What do rich people do on vacation? Go skiing? He should ask some of Cas's friends. Or, hell, maybe Cas. Though he doesn't seem the skiing type. Or the vacation type, really. What _does_ Cas like to do for fun? He's always pretty happy when they just hang out. He likes just sitting around and talking. He likes going for walks, even when it's too cold out. He seems to enjoy driving around in the Impala with Dean. Maybe they should go on vacation? He could take Cas camping for fun.

 _Jesus._ Dean rubs both hands over his face. He's seriously losing his mind.

A while later (Dean doesn't know how long he was off sitting by himself) Cas comes to find him. He perches on the arm of the couch next to Dean, frowning down at him.

"You are bored."

"Nah." Dean smiles up at him, reaching one hand up to cover Cas's knee. "Just full. Too much turkey. Where'd Gabe learn to cook like that?"

Cas's lips purse. "He… did many things when he was younger."

"I bet," Dean chuckles. It seems like Gabe doesn't totally hate him, though he's been mostly busy in the kitchen (with a gaggle of women surrounding him all day — nurses, doctors, other friends, who knows?). Dean leans his head against Cas's side and closes his eyes. He feels Cas's hand slide around his shoulders, tickle the back of his neck. Dean tips his head back to look up at him, thinking they should totally take a road trip before the snow falls.

Balthazar sails through the room and spots them. "There you are, Cassie. I'm off." He glances at Dean, as though surprised he's there. "Good seeing you again, _Dean_. Nice shirt."

"Yeah." Dean nods politely without moving his head from Cas. "Thanks."

Balthazar gives Castiel a quick peck on the cheek (probably because he knows it'll piss Dean off — Castiel looks annoyed too) before taking his leave. Dean's eyes follow his departure; he's embarrassed when he notices Cas watching him.

He leans down so that his lips are touching Dean's ear as he whispers, "I don't care what clothing you wear, Dean."

"I know," Dean replies gruffly, heat creeping across his cheeks.

"I think I would like to go visit the Harvelles now."

"Awesome," Dean whispers back, smiling into the skin of Cas's neck.

It's after eight when they get to the Roadhouse, but the party ain't even close to winding down. They're just in time for beer and pie and poker. Jo pretty much cleans everyone out. That's only because Dean is distracted. It's all Cas's fault. That's his story and he's sticking to it.

* * *

That night, they lie together in Castiel's bed in a sweaty tangle of limbs. With his fingertips, Castiel traces the scar on Dean's bicep, a thin pink line neatly bisecting his upper arm. Dean's eyes are closed, but he's not sleeping yet; Castiel can tell. Today Dean had not been his usual exuberant self. Not absent, but reserved. More subdued than Castiel has ever known him to be.

"You were very quiet today," Castiel says, voice low so as not to disturb the stillness of the night.

"Mm," Dean hums, and his hand gently rubs up and down Castiel's back. His eyes open just enough that Castiel can see a hint of green in the murky light. "What, I can't be contemplative?"

"What were you contemplating?"

Dean huffs, lips curving at the corners. "Nothing really." He burrows his head deeper into his pillow, bringing his face even closer to Castiel. "I was… maybe a little nervous. Meeting all your friends and colleagues or whatever."

"Everyone likes you," Castiel tells him, bumping Dean's nose with his.

"Course they do. I'm awesome." His arms tighten around Castiel and tug his body closer, leaving no space between them. "They're all pretty cool, too. Most of 'em," Dean adds.

"Balthazar only gives you a hard time because he cares."

"I get that."

"Gabriel would've, too, if he hadn't been so preoccupied."

"Not seeing how this is gonna make me like them more," Dean says, but there's humor in his voice.

"They are my…" Castiel pauses to rephrase that. He was going to say 'closest friends' but it's more. It's something he believes Dean would comprehend, without questioning. "They are the only family I have left, Dean."

The silence stretches out; he can see the questions forming, and immediately pushed away, in Dean's eyes. "Well, okay then," Dean murmurs against Castiel's cheek, pressing his lips there tenderly. He is always very attentive, even tonight when his mind was obviously elsewhere.

"So you and Balthazar…" Dean says several moments later. "You ever, uh…?"

Castiel frowns, puzzling that out. He draws back just enough to see Dean's face more clearly. "Are you asking if I've had intimate relations with a man I've just told you was like family to me?"

"Um… maybe?"

He can't help but laugh, shushing Dean with a kiss when he looks offended. "I have known Balthazar for many years," Castiel says, lips brushing over Dean's cheek. "We were in school together. And while he is… more liberal with his affections?" He checks Dean's face, but there's not much reaction there. "No, he and I have never had a relationship of that sort."

"Oh. Good."

He nuzzles his head under Dean's chin. "You don't have to worry about that, Dean."

"I wasn't worried. Worry about what?"

"I have not had very many relationships," Castiel says, inwardly cringing.

Dean releases a shuddery breath, halfway between a laugh and a sigh. "Can't say I'm really an expert on them, either."

Squeezing his eyes shut, Castiel says very quietly, "I haven't _been_ with many people at all, Dean." There's a long silence then.

"You mean, like…" He feels Dean's throat working beneath his head, heart beating below his ear. "How many—actually, I'm not gonna ask."

"Then neither will I."

"I guess being an army brat would sort of restrict that a little, right?"

Castiel freezes. _Tell him. Tell him._ No. "Yes. It does." He wants to change the subject now. "I had a girlfriend once."

"What, seriously?" Dean pulls away to look him in the eye. "I didn't think you… did. Girls."

"I was seventeen. Her name was Daphne; she was a very nice girl."

"A _'very nice girl'_?" Dean snorts; it's unattractive. Castiel glares at him. "When you say she was your girlfriend, you mean like… you guys just—" He rubs one hand over his jaw. "You mean you never slept with her, right?"

"Of course not. We were only in high school." Dean gives him a 'yeah so what' look. Castiel blushes, mumbling, "There was some… necking."

Dean laughs out loud then, a giant guffaw that takes them both by surprise. "Who even says 'necking'?"

Castiel rolls his eyes. "I suppose you were much more experienced by the time you were seventeen."

"In high school? I was a walking boner. Pretty sure I would've done some… a lot more stupid things if I hadn't been getting laid." Dean is perfect when he smiles.

"Well then." Castiel slides one leg over Dean, sinuously drawing himself up to straddle Dean's waist. "Where were you when I was in high school?"

"Dude," Dean chuckles, "I was in, like, second grade."

Castiel falls forward, hiding his face in Dean's chest. "Do not remind me."

Dean's rough hands smooth over the curve of Castiel's ass, gripping him tight as he rolls his hips up. "Hey, if you weren't such a cradle robber," Dean murmurs into his hair, "you wouldn't be in bed with someone who's ready to go again so soon."

Castiel sits up, stares directly into Dean's eyes. It's still in there, whatever Dean's been 'contemplating' all day, lurking in the depths of him, and he's desperately trying to push it back down.

He kisses Dean's mouth, neck, chest, working his way lower, and allows them both to be distracted.

* * *

"Hey, you got a message on your machine," Dean says the next morning, carrying his 'breakfast pie' over to the sofa. Castiel is unconvinced that just eating something in the morning makes it breakfast food.

He plays the message, even though he's not entirely awake yet, out of curiosity. The hospital never uses his landline — if he's needed, they try his cell phone then his pager.

_"Cas. Sorry, I won't be in the country for the holidays this year. There's just no chance to get away. No need to call back, you probably won't be able to reach me, but we'll talk soon. Tell Gabriel hello for me."_

It clicks off, and there are no more messages.

"Who was that?" Dean asks, watching him from the sofa. His pie sits abandoned on the coffee table. Castiel has only known Dean for roughly five months, but he knows enough to realize that Dean does not abandon pie lightly.

"That was my sister," he rasps, needing to clear his throat. "Anna. She's never 'in the country' on holidays, but she always calls. When she remembers."

Dean looks away, briefly, bites his lip, and turns back. "I didn't know you had a sister."

"I had two," Castiel replies automatically. He slowly makes his way over and sits on the edge of the couch next to Dean. "Anna is four and a half years older than me. She ran away and eloped as soon as she turned eighteen. Everyone was furious with her. Of course, she was divorced not even two years later. Kept her married name, though. Milton."

"So…" Dean asks, hesitantly, his mouth twitching as though unsure whether it wants to smirk or frown, "she's kinda the black sheep of the family?"

"I suppose she was for a while there," Castiel answers carefully. "I think she gets on well enough with everyone now. From a distance. As I said, she's never in the country, and I generally only hear from her on holidays."

"When she remembers," Dean echoes.

"Yes." They sit silently for a moment; Castiel avoids looking at anything.

"Never was a huge fan of holidays," Dean says, almost too loud in the quiet morning. "I mean, other than pie — which, really, you can just have anytime — what's the point?" He demonstrates by picking up his plate and fork again and taking a large mouthful.

"Holidays were never a big deal in our house," Castiel says, gradually relaxing back into the sofa.

"Yeah, us neither." At least Dean swallows before speaking this time, gesticulating with his fork. "I remember this one Christmas, though—I think it was after Christmas actually. Anyway, we were walking through a department store with all the sales and Sammy, he was about six or seven… no, six. And he sees they're selling these stupid little gumball machines, and his eyes light up like it's the fucking coolest thing in the whole damn world — your very own gumball machine. But he doesn't ask Dad for it, because he knows Dad'll say no, you know?"

Castiel nods, although he does not know.

"I tried explaining to him that you had to buy more gumballs to fill it up once it was empty and if he wanted some gum then I'd get him some gum, but, man, he just really wanted that stupid thing. When Sammy wants something, sets his heart on it, he can never just let it go." Dean finishes up his pie, scrapes the plate clean, and Castiel wonders if that was the end of the story.

But it's not. Dean sets the plate down and slumps backward, laying his arm along behind Castiel's shoulders.

"So, I saved up my money for, like, the next few months," Dean says, "and I bought the dumb gumball machine for his birthday. It was one of those bigger ones with the, like, spiral column the gumballs travel down." He illustrates with his hands how tall it was — a good three feet, Castiel guesses.

"God, he was so fucking happy, like it was the greatest present he'd ever seen in his whole life. And he turned the little thingy and watched the gumball roll down and come out the slot, and he chewed that piece of gum all goddamn day like he was just savoring it." Dean tips his head back, grinning at the ceiling for a minute, lost in memory. Castiel watches his face, wishing he could see inside Dean's mind, experience a memory like that for himself.

"Then the next morning," Dean says, turning to look at Castiel, "he knocked the damn thing over and smashed it all to hell. Gumballs everywhere. I'm standing there watching them roll over the floor and under all the furniture. Sammy just bursts into tears, and I'm thinkin' _'Shit, I gotta go buy him another one.'_ "

Dean sits up abruptly, placing his elbows on his knees. "But he's not crying because his new toy got broke. No, he's saying, _'I'm sorry, Dean, I'm sorry,'_ over and over, like it was something of mine he'd just wrecked — which he'd done plenty and he'd never cried like that about it." He eyes Castiel over his shoulder.

"See, the thing is, Sam knew how much that stupid piece of crap cost, and he knew I must've spent every penny I had on it. He was gonna make those fucking gumballs last the rest of the whole goddamn year if he had to. That's the kind of kid Sam was. Is." He laughs, a short, sharp exhale, and flops back against the cushions. "We did end up finding gumballs in our room for, like, the next six months. Pretty sure Sammy ate most of 'em, too."

Dean usually speaks of his brother with such love and fondness when telling amusing stories of them as boys. Relating that tale, he'd sounded… angry. And Castiel wonders why he's not visiting his brother for the holidays. The mysterious Sam sounds nothing like Castiel's own family.

"It sounds like you took very good care of your brother."

"I haven't seen my brother in over a year," Dean says, so quietly that Castiel barely hears him. "He won't even return my phone calls."

_Oh._

"We had a huge fight after our dad… died. 'Nother reason I ain't too fond of the holidays."

This is murky water that Castiel does not know how to navigate. "That's when he passed away?"

"No." Dean shakes his head. "He hung on through spring. He was—" Dean huffs one of those little laughs again. "I think he was trying to make it to Sam's graduation. We all ended up missing that." He crosses his arms over his chest. "It was round about this time of year we found out he was sick. This would be two years ago now. He'd been hiding it for months, maybe longer than a year, and by that time it—there was nothing left they could do."

"Perhaps… he was trying to spare you the grief," Castiel offers. Dean gives him such an incredulous look, Castiel stutters out, "I didn't say it was logical."

Dean looks tired, even though they just woke up. "Anyway, I was kind of a wreck afterward, and Sam… he picked up the slack a lot that summer. Hell, I know I was depending on him way too much, it wasn't his job to take care of me, but I thought—" He shakes his head. "He got into Stanford." Dean sounds both proud and pained at once. "I told him to put it off, he could wait a year, no big. I said—I said a lot of stupid shit, I don't even remember some of it."

Hunched over on the end of the sofa, Dean looks small for the first time that Castiel can ever remember. There's a wrongness to it, unsettling to Castiel, unbalancing the world.

"Jesus, that was only last summer. It feels way longer. Sometimes. Or like no time at all." Dean exhales audibly. It's not a sigh, exactly, more like releasing air from a balloon. He rakes his hands through his hair. "Anyway, end of August and Sam was gone."

Castiel raises his hand toward Dean, hovering just inches from his shoulder. Comforting people has never been his forte. His fingertips just brush the warm cotton of Dean's t-shirt when Dean rises up from the couch.

"I didn't mean to unload all that crap on you, man. I know you don't like talking about this stuff." Dean starts gathering up his dirty dishes and takes them to the kitchen sink.

Castiel wants to say 'no,' and that of course Dean can talk about this if he needs to… but he has a feeling that that isn't fair. And probably isn't what Dean meant.

"I gotta work today; I should go shower and stuff," Dean says on his way from kitchen to bedroom. It's not a long path, but he stops at the edge of the room. "You're off, right?"

Castiel nods.

"Cool. I'm doing the day shift. Done by eight." Dean shifts from foot to foot. "Want me to… come by after?"

"Yes." Castiel pushes himself off the couch and goes to stand before Dean. "I'll make dinner."

Dean's eyebrows shoot up. "Oh yeah?"

"It is not so surprising."

"Okay," Dean concedes, palms up. His laughter has returned, and Castiel kisses his slow-curving mouth. Dean's hands settle on Castiel's waist and pull him closer.

* * *

Castiel hears the door being unlocked and opened from in the kitchen. It's the first time Dean has used his key. A warm glowy feeling wells up in Castiel's stomach. Or that could be because he's standing too close to the stove.

"Wow, that smells good," Dean says, coming to stand behind him. Castiel turns to glower at him and Dean backs away. "I was just commenting, I'm not surprised. You cook awesome, Cas."

He shakes his head, but he's grinning. "It's just spaghetti and tomato sauce. Um, it's meatless, but there is garlic in it?"

"That sounds great." Dean sidles up behind him again, cradling Castiel's hips in his hands and kissing the side of his head.

Dinner is fairly quiet. Dean doesn't have any funny stories from work to share, and what Castiel spent all day doing is for… after. He's quaking internally, and Dean's distracted passivity doesn't seem to be going anywhere. He's tired and tries to sweet-talk Castiel into just going straight to bed as soon as they finish eating, but Castiel leads him to the sofa instead and sits him down. He evades Dean's grabby hands, and pours them both a drink before joining him.

"I wanted to… show you something," Castiel says after a deep breath and an even deeper drink.

"Uh-oh." Dean takes a sip of his, as well.

On the coffee table are some old photo albums and a shoebox held together with masking tape and sheer will. Castiel grabs the album on top, flips to a page, and sets it on Dean's lap.

"That is my family." He points to a boy a mere three years old and the smallest of the bunch. "That's me."

Dean looks closely, and laughs. "I can tell." He waves his hand above his head. "Same hair." Castiel smiles at that. "Also… wow. That's a lot of kids."

"I was the youngest of seven."

"I only see six in this picture," Dean says, setting his drink down on the floor rather than the cluttered coffee table.

"I had another sister. She would have been two years older than Anna," he says, pointing to the only girl in the picture. Her red hair stands out in an otherwise monochrome setting. "Hester was—she was stillborn. Our mother should probably not have had more children after that, but… my parents were quite fervent in their beliefs."

Dean looks at a loss for anything to say. Castiel spares him. "Those are my brothers." He points to them in turn, from oldest to youngest. "Michael, Luke, Raphael, and Virgil. Michael is sixteen years older than me, and down the line they're all roughly two years apart."

"Big age difference," Dean finally manages after a moment.

"My mother really wanted a girl. They finally got Anna." He stares down into his tumbler. "I think it's fair to assume that I was… a big surprise."

"Cute kid, though." Dean smiles his half-smile, hovering his finger over the photo Castiel's face.

"She passed away not long after I was born. I wish I had even one memory of her."

Dean's smile fades. "I'm sorry, Cas."

There are many things he would like Dean to know about him, but most of them are things he never wants to actually say. A childhood filled with confusion, adolescence with fear and guilt. He'd tried so hard to be what his family wanted.

Castiel downs the last of his Scotch. "Save Anna, I haven't spoken with any of them in… three? Over three years, I think," he says in wonderment. He can feel Dean's eyes on him.

"Why not? What'd they do?"

The question is so startling that Castiel barks a laugh so hard he coughs, burn of alcohol in his lungs. What did _they_ do? What _did_ they do? The answer, of course, is nothing.

"I did not leave the military voluntarily, Dean. If I'd had my way, if everything had gone according to plan, I'd still be there."

"Then what happened?"

Castiel's mouth twists. "You're not supposed to ask, and we're not supposed to tell."

"Huh?"

"There are rules. I broke them." Dean continues to stare in confusion. Castiel sighs. "They discovered that I was with another man."

"So? I mean, you weren't like fraternizing with the enemy, right?"

"No." Of course this is where Dean becomes obtuse. "They don't allow homosexuals in the armed forces, Dean." He waits for a reaction, any reaction. He's never heard Dean talk about his own sexuality before, never given any label to himself.

Eventually, Dean nods. "Oh. No, yeah I knew that." He looks down. "It's stupid."

"Yes, well." Castiel wishes his glass wasn't empty. "He was a businessman. I never asked what he did exactly. I didn't even like him very much, but he was… charming. And he approached me, and I was… I was so very tired of being alone, Dean." Castiel's voice sounds pleading. He meets Dean's eyes, and whatever expression must be on his face causes Dean to move closer and wrap an arm around his shoulders. 

He tells the rest to Dean's collar. "After we… I was only with him a few times, and then he tried to extort money from me. I refused to give in and he reported me to my commanding officer." He breathes deeply, Dean's scent and warmth filling his lungs. "There was a hearing, I was discharged, and I was no longer welcome at home."

"That's bullshit."

"The world is what it is." He flips the pages of the photo album until he finds the one he's looking for. In this one, he is five and sitting on the shoulders of his favorite brother, standing tall in his uniform. "Michael was the one to take care of me, mostly. He was… he was my hero when I was younger."

"And then he disowned you, just like that?"

"He had his reasons."

"That's bullshit," Dean repeats. "You don't turn your back on family." Castiel gives him a look. "That was different. He walked away from me."

"Does the difference really matter?" Cas says sadly. 

"Yes," Dean says, vehemently. "Me and Sam, what happened, was a completely different situation. It was as much my fault as it was his, probably more. I'm the older brother, it was my job to look out for him, I should've been helping him not—not controlling him. But whatever, I messed up, I take responsibility for that and I will... I'm trying to respect what he wants." He drags a hand through his hair. "But you. Cas, you gotta know that what your family did was wrong."

Dean eases his arm from around Castiel's shoulders, but he doesn't break eye contact, doesn't let him go very far. "They were wrong, Cas, not you."

After an eternity of staring, heart rate accelerating, Castiel can't take anymore and looks away. He closes the album and replaces it on the coffee table with the others. He no longer has the desire to look at them. "I'd like to go to bed now. Are you coming?"

"Yeah," Dean says, voice thick and rough. "Yeah, go on, I'll be there in a minute."

Castiel is already under the covers when Dean joins him, slipping in behind and curling an arm around Castiel's body to hold him close. He feels Dean's lips on the back of his neck, and his voice sounds rusty when he whispers, "Night, Cas." His breath smells heavily of the whiskey he prefers.

Castiel's throat feels dry, when he speaks. "If all that had not happened to me, Dean," he starts, and feels Dean shift behind him. "Then I most likely never would have met you." He finds Dean's hand with his. "And I don't regret it now."

* * *

Dean's never been so angry at people he's never met before. For days it just simmers in his veins. He goes to work and he's totally off his game (which cuts way down on his tips). He drops things, gets orders wrong, and feels like a total dick about it. He misses his cue when Jo teases him, and she ends up looking at him funny.

On top of that, he's stuck thinking about what she said to him. What _did_ he want to do? He doesn't even remember. Kids always have big, impossible dreams about being astronauts or president or secret agents, right? Dean can't recall what his crazy kid dreams were. He thinks he remembers briefly wanting to be a firefighter once. With the Dalmatian and everything. Saving people. But when he realized he could never travel back in time to save the only person that mattered, it lost its allure.

Then he was always meant to work in Dad's store. Not that he has a real passion for camping gear. Or, fuck him, customer service. It's different in a bar. And he's pretty good at it (usually). He likes it here. But, yeah, it's maybe not his dream job. Cleaning up puke in the corner is definitely in the con column.

The year is drawing to a close, the first snowfall has come and gone, and Dean had never planned on staying long enough to see that. He could be back out on the road easy; there's still a whole hell of a lot of this country he hasn't seen yet, but...

He _likes_ it _here_.

Then there's Cas, who's _awesome_. Since he dropped the bomb, he's been walking around all… happy. Lighter. Like it's somehow _okay_ because… Because of _Dean_? No way in hell does Dean make up for a guy losing his whole damn family.

That dick that did that to him? Cas couldn't even say the bastard's name. And the fact that Cas simply _accepts_ it, makes Dean want to rip someone's fucking lungs out. And that _family_ of his — what the hell is their problem? What is wrong with people? 

If Dean had joined the Marines, that — what happened to Cas — that could've been him. If he'd been caught sticking his dick where it didn't belong, and tossed out on his ass... But no. Dad wouldn't have just turned him out like that. He'd've been pissed, sure, that Dean fucked up, broke the rules. But not for... this.

Dean's almost positive.

Cas's calm should balance out Dean's urge for violence, but it's starting to just make him angrier. Not at Castiel, at the world. Cas believes in fate or divine will or whatever bullshit that means all of it happened for a reason. Dean can't buy that — random crap happens and people have a responsibility to take care of their own.

He should've been taking care of Sammy.

He turned his back on Sam.

Dean wonders if Sam would even recognize him now. He's not the same person he used to be. Used to try to be. He doesn't feel like he's changed so much as… He feels more himself, or something. Like he can be this guy here, with Cas.

He'd like to tell Sam about Cas; they'd get along great, stupid eggheads.

It takes him a couple weeks, but Dean finally breaks and tries again. Of course the kid doesn't answer his phone. But his outgoing message is enough to tell Dean everything he needs to know.

_"Hi, you've reached Sam. Unless this is about studying, then you probably won't hear from me until finals are over. If it's important you know where to find me. And, uh, if this is Dean then… just don't, man. I don't want to hear it."_

Dean listens to it twice. Then his phone is across the room smashing against the opposite wall, plastic bits and circuitry exploding into splinters.

"Fuck." He sinks to the floor, resting his head on his knees.

That's that then. Sam wants him to stay away, then… yeah. His last act as a big brother. He never could deny Sammy anything.

* * *

He's late picking Cas up at the hospital, but Cas isn't waiting in the front lobby like he said he would, so Dean figures something came up and he'll be out when he's done. It's not like he could've gotten any messages if Cas tried to call him.

He takes a seat and stares at the ceiling for a while. There aren't any magazines out here, but there are posters along the walls and one of those racks full of pamphlets. Dean's pretty much memorized these posters by now. He plucks the nearest pamphlet out and snorts at it. A CPR how-to guide. _If you're already in the hospital, ain't it a little late for this?_ The drawings are simplistic, but funny. If Dean had a marker on him he could make them funnier. He puts it back and reaches for the next one.

There's a dorky looking guy in blue on the cover, big wide smile and standing at parade rest like some douche in a TV show about… EMS workers, apparently. It's a recruiting brochure. Dean's rather engrossed in reading through it when the commotion on the other side of the reception desk draws his attention. He checks around for Nancy, but he doesn't see anyone on duty, so he pushes through the doors into the ER waiting area.

After two steps he's nearly run over by a gurney flanked by two paramedics racing in from the ambulance bay.

"Move," the guy in the lead barks as he rushes past. On the gurney is a young woman, soaking wet in a bright pink ruffled gown, crying.

Dean jumps out of the way, muttering, "What a dick." He sees three more wet chicks in pink gowns, like dripping cake frosting, before he spots Cas coming his way. They meet halfway, standing off to the sidelines. "What the shit happened here?"

"I believe they were posing for pictures on a dock," Cas explains, hands in his coat pockets. "The dock collapsed."

"Jesus. You gotta stay and take care of this?"

Cas shakes his head. "A few scrapes, and some very wet bridesmaids bordering on hypothermia, but nothing surgical so far. Dr. Archer is taking over now, so I'm good to leave. I was just coming to look for you."

"Uh, yeah, I—"

Across the room there's a high-pitched screech and one of the bridesmaids is struggling to claw the eyes out of a guy in a tux lying on a gurney. A blonde woman wearing a giant cotton ball, who is probably the bride, is holding her off.

"You're just jealous, Jocelyn! Chuck broke _my_ fall! He's _my_ husband!" And then the cotton ball tackles the frosting.

"Anything for you, honey," the groom slurs with a feeble smile.

Dean winces. "Maybe we should get out of here now," he says; Cas nods emphatically.

Two security guards are pulling the bridal party off each other, and Dean and Cas make their escape. The wind hits them the second they're outside; winter is barreling down on them.

"Who gets married outside, _on a lake_ , in December?" Dean says, pulling up his collar and hunching his shoulders against the cold. He glances at Cas, expecting a laugh or a smile, amusement at the very least. But Cas is watching him carefully.

"Are you all right?" he asks, slowing his pace. "I tried calling you… your number was disconnected."

"Oh." Dean slows, too, matching his stride. "Yeah. I, uh, I bought a new phone. My old one was a piece of crap." He fishes a scrap of paper out of his pocket and hands it over. "So here's my new number. Local. I've got an actual phone plan and everything."

Cas studies it, brows furrowing. His eyes catch on Dean's other hand. "What's that?"

Dean looks down at the brochure crumpled in his fist. "Um, it's nothing." He rubs his free hand over the back of his neck, using the other to flash the title under Cas's nose. "I was just looking at it."

Cas's brow raises, but he just looks back up into Dean's eyes. "But you're okay?"

"Yeah. I'm good." Dean coughs, forces a smile for Cas. His fingers fumble down and grip the sleeve of Cas's coat, tugging him along. "Let's go home."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I understand that the ending here is a little abrupt, but since this is a prequel I would hope that any ambiguity is cleared up in [New Heaven](http://sullymygoodname.dreamwidth.org/2535.html). It was, in all honesty, meant to end well before this with Dean getting his own apartment, but I felt there was still much more to say. As you can see, this, too, got away from me. Honestly, I thought: 'Oh this story will be 15k, tops!' The universe laughs at me every time I have such thoughts. Originally it was going to be completely from Castiel's POV, since the other is all Dean's, but the more I got into it, the more I realized there was still so much of Dean's story left to tell. On top of this, I feel there is yet _still_ more of the Winchesters' story to tell… and that will be done in the 3rd installment of this series! Including Sam! No ETA on that one, but I was writing them simultaneously so hopefully it won't take too long.
> 
> Other notes: Castiel's army and medical background were mostly based off Dr. Owen Hunt from Grey's Anatomy... To be perfectly honest, the bulk of my hospital "knowledge" was gleaned from Grey's, as I try to avoid hospitals as much as possible. You might've noticed that Balthazar was Mark Sloan, obviously, and Gabriel was a mix of Bailey and Karev. I did do _some_ research, but I'm sorry for any glaring inaccuracies. Also, at the beginning Castiel acknowledges he is experiencing symptoms of depression, but he is not clinically depressed. There's a huge difference.
> 
> I realized too late that I sort of fudged the timeline for Dean's paramedic training (he should've gotten started much sooner) but you're all such wonderful nice people you're going to let that slide, right? Also apologies for the lack of Ash. I tried writing him, but I just don't seem to have a handle on his character yet, and I'd rather he be just in the background than written badly. Last thing, I... actually sort of want to write the story of Chuck and Becky getting married? But probably won't. Hope you enjoyed this story!


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